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Title: Microcosmography
       or, a Piece of the World Discovered; in Essays and Characters

Author: John Earle

Release Date: August 25, 2008 [EBook #26425]

Language: English

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PREFACE.

It may be reasonably asked why Dr. Bliss's[A] edition of the Microcosmography should require a preface, and the answer is that it does not require one. It would be difficult to have a more scholarly, more adequate, more self-sufficing edition of a favourite book. Almost everything that helps the elucidation of the text, almost everything about Bishop Earle that could heighten our affection for him (there is nothing known to his disparagement) is to be found here.[B] And affection for the editor[viii] is conciliated by the way. It is not only his standard of equipment that secures this—a standard that might have satisfied Mark Pattison[C]—but also the painstaking love revealed in it, which, like every other true love, whether of men or books, will not give of that which costs it nothing. And, as a further title to our regard, Dr. Bliss is amusing at his own expense, and compares himself to Earle's "critic," who swells books into folios with his comments. Not that this humorous self-depreciation is to be pressed; for, unlike that critic, he is no "troublesome vexer of the dead."

But though there is no need of a preface, I have two excuses for writing one.

The first is that I was asked to do it by my friend Mr. Frank George, of Bristol, who wished to see the book reprinted; and the[ix] second is the old professio pietatis, which seemed to Tacitus a sufficient defence of the Agricola, and may perhaps be allowed to serve humbler people as well. What Earle says of men is no less true of books: "Acquaintance is the first draught of a friend. Men take a degree in our respect till at last they wholly possess us;" and the history of this possession must, in every case, have a sort of interest, as long as it is not carried to the point of demanding from others the superlatives we permit to ourselves. It is sufficiently common for people to like the same book for different reasons; and where an author has a secure place in English literature, his shade, like the deity of Utopia, may be best pleased with a manifold and various worship.[D]

The character of Earle, as drawn by Clarendon, is itself a guarantee for his studies of character; and the fact that Lord Falkland was his chosen friend is evidence of his possessing something of that sweet[x] reasonableness of temper for which his host was so remarkable. "He was very dear" (we are told) "to the Lord Falkland, with whom he spent as much time as he could make his own." Indeed, "Mr. Earles would frequently profess that he had got more useful learning by his conversation at Tew than he had at Oxford." Of Earle's conversation Clarendon says that it was "so pleasant and delightful, so very innocent and so very facetious, that no man's company was more desired and more loved." Walton, too, tells us of his "innocent wisdom and sanctified learning"; and another witness speaks of his "charitable heart," an epithet which is nobly borne out by the correspondence between himself and Baxter printed in this volume.

This is no superfluous citation of testimony. Without it we might, perhaps, have suspected, though not, I think, legitimately, something almost of a cynical spirit in the severity of the punishment which he deals out to the various disguises of vice and imposture, and in the pitiless nakedness in[xi] which he leaves them. But there are even stronger reasons for recalling contemporary verdicts pronounced on Earle as a man. Hallam, in the "Literature of Europe,"[E] has a short notice of him, and though it shews some appreciation of his ability, it contains a very unworthy aspersion on his character. "The chapter on the sceptic," he says, "is witty, but an insult to the honest searcher after truth, which could only have come from one that was content to take up his own opinions for ease or profit." If we accept all that is said of Earle's piety and devotion, and give its proper weight to the very significant epithet "innocent," used both by Walton and Clarendon, we shall, I think, be slow to suspect his motive in attacking the sceptic. The honest doubter, it must be remembered, was not the familiar—much less the fashionable—figure he has become since, and it is very certain that Earle described one type of sceptic both of his day and our own. That his sketch may have done injustice to other types is likely enough;[xii] but that is no reason for calling in question the sincerity of his opinions, or attributing an interested orthodoxy to one whom Bunyan might have christened Mr. Singleheart. The piety of the 17th Century was not disposed to be gentle to sceptics. Even Bacon's enlightenment allows itself harsher language on such subjects than any to be found in Earle. "None do refuse to believe in a God save those for whom it maketh that there were no God." And if Bacon is not thought a satisfactory witness, we have an unimpeachable one very much nearer to our time. Dr. Johnson's occasional strictures on sceptics are well-known, but his reputation for honest thinking has never been impaired by their severity. Earle knew what charity was, as the Baxter correspondence shows, and he has exposed in one of his characters "the faith that has no room for it"; and if his own faith needed further enlargement in the case of a sceptic,[F] some enlargement of[xiii] Hallam's charity might also have been looked for in dealing with the earnestness of a militant piety.

The character-sketch is naturally a thing of limited scope. "Fine portraiture,"[G] it has been said, "is not possible under such conditions as it imposes. The traits, common to a class, cannot at the same time be the accurate and intimate likeness of an individual. For this, a simple enumeration of actions which such and such a man will do, is not enough. A novelist takes a long series of connected actions, and even then he has to interpret, to review from time to time whole stages of development." All this is, no doubt, true, but the character-writers differ to a remarkable extent in[xiv] their individualising power—some of them achieving a high degree of success, as is subsequently admitted in the case of Thackeray by the writer just quoted. It may be noticed too, by the way, that great novelists are not always equally successful in the character-sketch. One is reminded of Johnson's phrase about Milton's inability "to carve heads upon cherry stones" when one thinks of "Theophrastus Such" on the one hand, and the almost unique position of George Eliot as a novelist on the other. Less successful as she often is in lightness of touch when she has to pause and interpret her story, she had not prepared us for such a complete exhaustion of power as her attempt in this branch of literature (apparently of the same genus, almost of the same species, as the novel) reveals to her disappointed admirers. It may, at any rate, be said that her failure is an instructive lesson in the literary division of labour, and that these studies require a peculiar delicacy of organisation in the observer, as well as a special gift of exposition.[xv]

"Dolus latet in generalibus" is a salutary warning, but the character-writers, as a whole, have in most instances got creditably out of the snare, while Earle, I think, has achieved something more. Besides his humour and acuteness, besides even his profundity, I find in him an exceptional power of individualizing. "The contemplative man," for instance, belongs to a small class at all times; but it is only an individual we have known, and known at rare intervals, of whose Wordsworthian temper we are able to say that "Nature asks his approbation as it were of her works and variety." Again, "the grave divine, who is not yet dean or canon, though his life is our religion's best apology," reads throughout like a personal experience. I at least so read it, or I should not have borrowed from Earle for the dedication which stands at the head of this preface. Yet such identifications are usually reserved for the great novelist, whose highest art, as Macaulay says, is to "make the inventions of one man seem like the recollections of another."

Some of Earle's readers appear to be[xvi] chiefly impressed with his book as furnishing "a picturesque idea of a period now remote, and as possessing much of the affected quaintness of its age."[H] The picturesqueness I find, and a good deal of quaintness; but the total impression is that of a man who has got beyond words, ancient or modern, in his studies of human nature—of one who, whether

or is "anatomizing the wise man's folly," is as instructive a moralist in the end of the nineteenth century as in the beginning of the seventeenth. This, in a sense, is true of all great moralists, but the distinction of Earle, as I understand it, is that his characters are so often really people of our own day, with idiosyncracies that seem almost more applicable to our own age than to his.

Society is almost a technical term to-day, susceptible, one would have said, of refinements[xvii] of difference infinitely more various than anything that could have existed more than two hundred years ago; yet one cannot but feel that this observer would have been fully equal to drawing our microcosm as well as his own. Earle's is a penetrating observation which is always fresh—so fresh that no archaism of phrase in him, and no cheery optimism in ourselves, can disguise the fact that it is our weaknesses he is probing, our motives he is discovering.

There are still with us "those well-behaved ghosts Æneas met with—friends to talk with, and men to look on, but if he grasped them but air"—those shadowy creatures that "wonder at your ill-breeding,[I] that cannot distinguish between what is spoken and what is meant."[xviii]

We are no strangers to "the fashionable respect which loves not deeper mutualities, but though exceeding kind and friendly at your first acquaintance, is at the twentieth meeting but friendly still"; or to that similar temper which "nothing so much puts out as to trespass against the genteel way." And, to go a stage lower, the formal man still survives, whose "face is in so good a frame because he is not disjointed with other meditations—who hath staid in the world to fill a number; and when he is gone there wants one and there's an end."[J] He, to be sure, has no conversation, and that is his discretion—but others display then as now a bolder discretion, and in their talk "fly for sanctuary rather to nonsense which few descry, than to nothing which all."

But literary conversation is not forgotten.[xix] It may be a stretch beyond the power of a latter-day imagination to fancy a visitor proposing to fascinate his company by some "scatterings of Seneca and Tacitus," or even to think ourselves back to a time when these "were good for all occasions." Yet, those who say "Chaucer[K] for our money above all our English poets because the voice has gone so," (or had we better substitute Browning?),[L] are still common enough examples of those who desire to acquire inexpensively the reputation of good taste.

And there is another variety of modern artificiality which is not spared in this book. For the many forms of busy idleness, the worship of organisation and system, and all the other hindrances to life properly so-called,[xx] which it has been the cherished labour of this age to multiply, Earle would have had no reserve of patience. "The dull physician," we are told, has no leisure to be idle, that is, to study. "The grave divine," who has "studied to make his shoulders sufficient for his burden, comes not up thrice a week into his pulpit because he would not be idle"; whereas the commendation of the young raw preacher is that "he speaks without book, and, indeed, he was never used to it."

We may justly boast of the superior humanity of our century; but few would deny that the elaborate apparatus of modern philanthropy has too often become an end in itself, and absorption in it a serious detriment to any worthy preparation for the work of edifying. In the absence of leisure pulpits will hardly furnish us with that "sincere erudition which can send us clear and pure away unto a virtuous and happy life."[M] Nor is such a loss compensated by an endless succession of services or even a whole street of committee-rooms.[xxi]

One would not, however, wish to rest in negations or dwell in the last resort on Earle's critical attitude. One feels that the delightful house at Tew did not spend all or even its best strength on criticism. Earle may have there pursued the method of verification and studied his characters in the flesh. Perhaps he saw there "the staid man," and duly appraised this specimen of "nature's geometry";[N] while his obvious gifts as a rational peace-maker, if not much needed in such a company, would not be overlooked by Lord Falkland. "The good old man," too is a portrait so strongly individualized that I cannot help thinking some very personal experience went to the making of it—experience of a sort that was sure to be revived at Tew, where "so good a relick of the old times" was not likely to be wanting. It was a house, at any rate, for the "modest man" to whom, as to the poet Cowper, public appearances were so many penances; for though the world may not[xxii] agree with Earle as to the degree in which this quality sets off a man, there is no question of Lord Falkland's welcome of the modest man, even if that grave divine "Mr. Earles," did not point out this diffident guest as one who "had a piece of singularity," and, for all his modesty, "scorned something."

And, as "the most polite and accurate men of the University of Oxford"[O] were to be met with at Tew, we may further hope that Earle there watched the social mellowing of the "downright scholar whose mind was too much taken up with his mind,"[P] and strove to carry out his own recommendation, "practising him in men, and brushing him over with good company."

Symposium is a word that has been much abused and vulgarised of late, but something like its true Platonic sense must have been realised by the company at Lord Falkland's,[xxiii] as they "examined and refined those grosser propositions which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation":[Q] for a more Platonic programme it would be difficult to conceive. The pattern of the ideal republic is, we know, laid up somewhere in the heavens; but the republic of letters so far as it was represented, must have been as near the ideal in that house as it ever was on earth. And in this ideal one of Earle's characters already mentioned was not only a natural but a necessary element. "The contemplative man" is solitary, we are told, in company, but he would not be so in this company. "Outward show, the stream, the people," were not taken seriously at Lord Falkland's; and the man who "can spell heaven out of earth" would be the centre of a rare group—men upon whose fresh and eager appetites conversation that was "mysterious and inward" could not easily pall.

Bishop Berkeley is one of the very few men who could answer with any plausibility[xxiv] to this last character of Earle's. But the marvellous amenity of his social gifts brings him a little closer to the kindly race of men than Earle thinks is usual with the contemplative student. In every other point it is an accurate piece of portraiture.[R] Nature might well ask approbation of her works and variety from a man who was ever feeding his noble curiosity and never satisfying it. He, too, made a "ladder of his observations to climb to God." He, too, was "free from vice, because he had no occasion to employ it." "Such gifts," said the turbulent Bishop Atterbury of him, "I did not think had been the portion of any[xxv] but angels." After this it is no hyperbole to say, as Earle does of the contemplative man, "He has learnt all can here be taught him, and comes now to heaven to see more."

Though Clarendon does full justice to Earle's personal charm, he uses the epithets "sharp and witty" to describe his published "discourses"; and the piercing severity of his wit is illustrated everywhere in this book. It is clear, however, from the sympathetic sketches that Earle's was no nil admirari doctrine, and that while he saw grave need on all hands for men to clear their mind of cant, and their company of those who live by it, he had great store of affection for all that is noble or noble in the making.

The "modest man" and the high-spirited man" are opposite types, but there is in both the worthy pursuit and the high ideal. Moreover, the second of those characters reveals a power of pathos which Earle might have developed with more opportunity.[S] "The child" whom "his father has writ[xxvi] as his own little story" is another indication of the same mood.

These sketches are full of suggestive melancholy—not the melancholy of the misanthrope, but the true melancholy—the melancholy of Virgil—Invalidus etiamque tremens etiam inscius aevi.[T]

There is another character drawn with a most incisive pathos, though less Virgilian[U] in its tone.

The poor man, "with whom even those that are not friends for ends love not a dearness," and who, "with a great deal of virtue, obtains of himself not to hate men," is a pathetic figure, but he is something more. He is a sermon on human weakness, not drawn as some Iago might have drawn it with exultant mockery, but with the painful[xxvii] unflinching veracity of one who is ashamed of himself and of his kind. When one thinks how often this weakness is spoken of as if it were peculiar to the moneyed class or to the uneducated, and how many people whom one knows act and think as if poverty were a vice if not a crime, though they shrink from avowing it, so unqualified an exposure indicates a conscience of no common sensitiveness.

Earle's wit and humour are deadly weapons, and it must be said that the trades and professions are treated with scant indulgence. He can even leave a mark like that of Junius when he has a mind. Thus the dull physician is present at "some desperate recovery, and is slandered with it, though he be guiltless"; and the attorney does not fear doomsday because "he hopes he has a trick to reverse judgment!"

But though one would not ask on behalf of impostors or scoundrels for suspension of sentence, one does wish for more than a single picture of the young man "who sins to better his understanding." The companionship[xxviii] of one who by his 34th year "had so much dispatched the business of life that the oldest rarely attain to that knowledge and the youngest enter not the world with more innocence,"[V] might have induced Earle to pourtray more than the weaknesses of immature manhood.

We could not, however, have missed this or the other pictures of characterless persons whether young or "having attained no proficiency by their stay in the world." Inexperience may fail to recognise them and suffer for it; or the gilding of rank and fashion may win for such persons a name in society above that which they deserve, and the moralist is bound to unmask them. These studies nevertheless are somewhat sombre;[W] and there is something much lighter and pleasanter in his presentation[xxix] of some not unfamiliar phases of manners. There is the self-complacency that deals with itself like a "truant reader skipping over the harsh places"; the frank discourtesy that finds something vicious in the conventions and "circumstance" of good breeding; the patronising insolence[X] that "with much ado seems to recover your name"; the egoism of discontent that "has an accustomed tenderness not to be crossed in its fancy"; or[xxx] lastly, that affectation of reticence which is as modern as anything in the book, though its illustrations look so remote. Where we meet with such a temper, Earle's is still the right method—"we must deal with such a man as we do with Hebrew letters, spell him backwards and read him!"

Despite all this searching analysis and the biting wit which accompanies it, I cannot think the epithet cynical, which I have heard ascribed to Earle, is defensible. There is a vast difference between recognising our frailty which is a fact, and insisting that our nature is made up of nothing else, which is not a fact. The severe critic and the cynic differ chiefly in this: the first reports distressing facts, the second invents disgraceful fictions; the one distrusts, the other insults our common nature; and in doing justice to the possibilities of that nature, no one has gone further than Earle in his "contemplative man."

Something may be said of Earle's style before this introduction is brought to an end.[xxxi]

I do not think it is uniformly conspicuous[Y] for quaintness, or that there is much that can be called affectation; though occasionally an excess of brevity has proved too tempting, or the desire to individualize runs away with him.

The following passages, taken at random from the Characters, seem to contain phrases that we should be well content to use to-day if we had thought of them.

These quotations have no very unfamiliar sound, nor much flavour of archaism about them. And there are many more, surprisingly free from conceits or other oddities, if we reflect that the book was written before Dryden was born, or modern prose with its precision and balance even thought of.

There is one very distinguishing mark set on Earle's characters, the profundity of the analysis that accompanies the sketch. He lets us know not only what the grave divine or the staid man looks like, but why they are what they are, and all this without[xxxiii] turning his sketch into an essay. This mistake Bishop Hall is inclined to make, and Butler actually makes. The author of Hudibras, it seems, would have been too fortunate had he known where his own happiness lay—to wit in that "sting" of verse, which Cowper says prose neither has nor can have.

When one compares the essay in its beginnings with the essay as we know it to-day, it is not difficult to understand the change of form in the character sketch. "The Character of a Trimmer"[Z] is a very powerful piece of writing, containing some very fine things, but Halifax could not make of it that finished piece of brevity which it would have become in Earle's hands. Latin criticism has the right word for his work—"densus."[AA] We could not pack[xxxiv] the thinking closer if we wished. And yet if we do not care to reason a type out, there are pictures enough unspoilt by commentary.[AB] Earle has some of that delightful suddenness of illustration which Selden makes so captivating in his Table-Talk. At once we are made to see likeness or unlikeness, we hear no comment on it; since the artist desires no more moral than is to be looked for in his art.

When on the other hand Earle makes more of the reason of the thing, he[AC] is literally "swift and sententious"—he never takes the opportunity to draw us into an instructive disquisition, or to assume airs of profundity. And his passing hint as to the cause of what we see no more injures any picture he may draw than Coleridge's prose[xxxv] argument at the side of the page destroys the imaginative spectacle in the Ancient Mariner.

Earle, it has been said, "is not so thoroughly at home with men of all sorts and conditions as Overbury, who had probably seen far more of the world."[AD] However relatively true this may be, Earle's book [published 1628] gives evidence of an experience of men as wide as it is intimate—an experience little short of marvellous in a resident Fellow of twenty-seven, whose younger years were chiefly distinguished for "oratory, poetry, and witty fancies."[AE] (Perhaps his youth may account for some of that excessive severity in handling follies which is occasionally noticeable.) The article in the "Dictionary of National Biography" gives a somewhat different impression of Earle as an observer. "The sketches throw," it says, "the greatest light upon the social condition of the time." Now this is not[xxxvi] possible for anyone to achieve whose vision requires "the spectacles of books"; though with such help it is doubtless possible to extend and improve on the observations of others, with human nature as a constant quantity. But to be at home with one's contemporaries and to record one's intimacy means to see with the eye as well as the mind. The slow inductive method of personal contact is indispensable; and no reasoning from first principles, no assimilating of secondhand experience, with whatever touches of genius, can be mistaken for it.

It is not likely that the Registrar's house (his father's house) at York added much to Earle's sketch-book; and we have to fall back on what Clarendon says of his delightful conversation, and by implication, of his delight in it. In the society of a University and in the life of a University town there would be presented to an observer of his exceptional penetration enough of the fusion or confusion of classes to furnish the analytical powers with a tolerably wide field.

And Earle does not suffer by comparison[xxxvii] with his rivals. "The concise narrative manner"[AF] of Theophrastus, though in its way as humorously informing as we find Plautus and Terence, and as we should have found the New Comedy which they copied, leaves us a little cold from the looseness or the connexion in the quasi-narrative: we rise a little unsatisfied from the ingenious banquet of conversational scraps; we desire more. Overbury, again, says less than Earle, and is more artificial in saying it. Butler and Bishop Hall too directly suggest the essay[AG] and the sermon. In no one of them is brevity so obviously the soul of wit as it is in Earle; no one of them is so humorously thoughtful, so lucid in conception, so striking in phrase.

When one has reckoned up all these gifts, and all that his friends and contemporaries[xxxviii] said of him, and remember also who and what these friends were, one is not startled by the eulogistic epitaph in Merton College Chapel; these words are as moving as they are strong:

Si nomen ejus necdum suboleat, Lector,
Nomen ejus ut pretiosa unguenta;
Johannes Earle Eboracensis.

But his own choicer Latin in the epitaph he wrote for the learned Peter Heylin would serve no less well for himself; and the beautiful brevity of its closing cadences has so much of the distinction of his English, and puts so forcibly what Earle deserves to have said of him, that it may fitly be the last word here:

Plura ejusmodi meditanti
mors indixit silentium:
ut sileatur
efficere non potest.

S.T.I.

Clifton, May, 1896.

[xxxix]

CONTENTS

OF THE

SUPPLEMENTARY APPENDIX.

(1) The Durham MS.

In the Cathedral Library at Durham is a small bound volume which contains forty-six of Earle's Characters, bearing date 1627[AH],—the date of the first edition being 1628. I was enabled by the kindness of Dr. Greenwell, the Librarian, to take it away and examine it at leisure; and the courtesy of the University Librarian, Dr. Fowler, furnished me with an exact collation of the MS. versions with the printed text[AI] of these[xl] forty-six Characters, the original of the contributions made by him to "Notes and Queries," and referred to in the "Dictionary of National Biography."

(2) I have printed, besides, some other versions quoted by Bliss from "Dr. Bright's MS.," and incorporated in his annotated copy of his own book. These are often the same with those of the Durham MS. I should mention that though this annotated copy is in the Bodleian Library, the Sub-Librarian, Mr. Falconer Madan, "knows of no 'Bright MS.,'[AJ] nor where Bliss's MS. with that name is." The copy in question contains so much additional matter that I have added a few things from it, but my space was necessarily limited; there is good evidence in it of Bliss's statement that he had continued collecting materials for the book for forty-four years after its publication. Moreover, in the "Bliss Sale Catalogue" in the Bodleian there are some 530 books of[xli] Characters (including duplicates). I am myself in possession, as I believe, of a copy of Bliss's edition which belonged to himself, and which is annotated by himself and Haslewood.[AK] It contains a castrated title-page (originally Bliss suppressed his name) and a notice of the book in the "Monthly Review" of 1812.

(3) I have added a few "testimonies" to Earle from Anthony Wood and others.

(4) I have printed three letters from Clarendon to Earle from the "Clarendon State Papers," with short extracts from two others; as well as two letters of Earle's from the Bodleian Library—interesting rather as personal relics than as containing anything very significant. All that relates to its author will, I believe, be acceptable to lovers of the "Cosmography."

For this additional matter, as well as for other help and counsel, I am indebted to Mr. Charles Firth, of Balliol College, Oxford, whose learning is always at the service of[xlii] his friends, and who stands in no need of the old injunction—"not to be reserved and caitiff in this part of goodness."

(5) From a notebook of Bliss's (in MS.) in my possession I have added a few titles of Books of Characters.

I have retained in this Appendix the spelling I found. Bliss's text has, with a few exceptions (possibly accidental), the modern spelling.

[xliii]

[xlv]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The present edition of Bishop Earle's Characters was undertaken from an idea that they were well worthy of republication, and that the present period, when the productions of our early English writers are sought after with an avidity hitherto unexampled, would be the most favourable for their appearance.

The text has been taken from the edition of 1732, collated with the first impression in 1628. The variations from the latter are thus distinguished:—those words or passages which have been added since the first edition are contained between brackets, [and printed in the common type]; those which have received some alteration, are printed in italic, and the passages, as they stand in the first edition, are always given in a note.[xlvi]

For the Notes, Appendix, and Index, the editor is entirely answerable, and although he is fully aware that many superfluities will be censured, many omissions discovered, and many errors pointed out, he hopes that the merits of the original author will, in a great measure, compensate for the false judgment or neglect of his reviver.

January 30, 1811.[xlvii]

THE PREFACE

[TO THE EDITION OF 1732[AL].]

This little book had six editions between 1628 and 1633, without any author's name to recommend it: I have heard of an eighth in 1664. From that of 33 this present edition is reprinted, without altering any thing but the plain errors of the press, and the old pointing and spelling in some places.

The language is generally easy, and proves our English tongue not to be so very changeable as is commonly supposed; nay, sometimes the phrase seems a little obscure, more by the mistakes of the printer than the distance of time. Here and there we meet with a broad expression, and some characters are far below others; nor is it to be expected that so great a variety of portraits should all be drawn with equal excellence, though there are scarce any without some masterly touches. The change of fashions unavoidably casts a shade upon a few places, yet even those contain an exact picture of the age wherein they were written, as the rest does of mankind in[xlviii] general: for reflections founded upon nature will be just in the main, as long as men are men, though the particular instances of vice and folly may be diversified. Paul's Walk is now no more, but then good company adjourn to coffee-houses, and, at the reasonable fine of two or three pence, throw away as much of their precious time as they find troublesome.

Perhaps these valuable essays may be as acceptable to the public now as they were at first; both for the entertainment of those who are already experienced in the ways of mankind, and for the information of others who would know the world the best way, that is—without trying it[AM].

[xlix]

ADVERTISEMENT

[TO THE EDITION OF 1786[AN].]

As this entertaining little book is become rather scarce, and is replete with so much good sense and genuine humour, which, though in part adapted to the times when it first appeared, seems, on the whole, by no means inapplicable to any æra of mankind, the editor conceives that there needs little apology for the republication. A farther inducement is, his having, from very good authority, lately discovered[AO] that these Characters (hitherto known only under the title of Blount's[AP]),[l] were actually drawn by the able pencil of John Earle, who was formerly bishop of Sarum, having been translated to that see from Worcester, A.D. 1663, and died at Oxford, 1665.

Isaac Walton, in his Life of Hooker, delineates the character of the said venerable prelate.

It appears from Antony Wood's Athen. Oxon. under the Life of Bishop Earle, that this book was first of all published at London in 1628, under the name of "Edward Blount."

[li]

EDITIONS OF "MICROCOSMOGRAPHY."

The first edition (of which the Bodleian possesses a copy, 8vo. P. 154. Theol.) was printed with the following title: "Microcosmographie: or, a Peece of the World discovered; In Essayes and Characters. Newly composed for the Northerne parts of this Kingdome. At London. Printed by W. S. for Ed. Blount, 1628." This contains only fifty-four characters[AQ], which in the present edition are placed first. I am unable to speak of any subsequent copy, till one in the following year, (1629), printed for Robert Allot[AR], and called in the title "The first edition much enlarged." This, as Mr. Henry Ellis kindly informs me, from a copy in the British Museum, possesses seventy-six characters. The sixth was printed for Allot, in 1633, (Bodl. Mar. 441,) and has seventy-eight, the additional[lii] ones being "a herald," and "a suspicious, or jealous man." The seventh appeared in 1638, for Andrew Crooke, agreeing precisely with the sixth; and in 1650 the eighth. A copy of the latter is in the curious library of Mr. Hill, and, as Mr. Park acquaints me, is without any specific edition numbered in the title. I omit that noticed by the editor of 1732, as printed in 1664, for if such a volume did exist, which I much doubt, it was nothing more than a copy of the eighth with a new title-page. In 1732 appeared the ninth, which was a reprint of the sixth, executed with care and judgment. I have endeavoured in vain to discover to whom we are indebted for this republication of bishop Earle's curious volume, but it is probable that the person who undertook it, found so little encouragement in his attempt to revive a taste for the productions of our early writers, that he suffered his name to remain unknown. Certain it is that the impression, probably not a large one, did not sell speedily, as I have seen a copy, bearing date 1740, under the name of "The World display'd: or several Essays; consisting of the various Characters and Passions of its principal Inhabitants," &c. London, printed for C. Ward, and R. Chandler. The edition printed at Salisbury, in 1786, (which has only seventy-four characters,) with that now offered to the public, close the list.

[liii]

CONTENTS.

[lvii]

APPENDIX.

[lix]

TO THE READER[AT].

I have (for once) adventured to play the midwife's part, helping to bring forth these infants into the world, which the father would have smothered; who having left them lapt up in loose sheets, as soon as his fancy was delivered of them, written especially for his private recreation, to pass away the time in the country, and by the forcible request of friends drawn from him: yet, passing severally from hand to hand, in written copies, grew at length to be a pretty number in a little volume: and among so many sundry dispersed transcripts, some very imperfect and surreptitious had liked to have passed the press, if the author had not used speedy means of prevention; when, perceiving the hazard he ran to be wronged, was unwillingly[AU] willing to let them pass as now they appear to the world. If any faults have escaped the press (as few books can be printed without), impose them not on the author, I intreat thee; but rather impute them to mine and the printer's oversight, who seriously promise, on the[lx] re-impression hereof, by greater care and diligence for this our former default, to make thee ample satisfaction. In the mean while, I remain

Thine,

Ed. Blount[AV].

[1]

MICROCOSMOGRAPHY;

or,

A piece of the World characterized.

I.

A CHILD

Is a man in a small letter, yet the best copy of Adam before he tasted of Eve or the apple; and he is happy whose small practice in the world can only write his character. He is nature's fresh picture newly drawn in oil, which time, and much handling, dims and defaces. His soul is yet a white paper[1] unscribbled with observations of the world, wherewith, at length, it becomes a blurred[2] note-book. He is purely happy, because he knows no evil, nor hath made means by sin to be acquainted with misery. He arrives not at the mischief of being wise, nor endures evils to come, by fore-seeing them. He kisses and loves all, and, when the smart of the rod is past, smiles on his beater. Nature and his parents alike dandle him, and tice him on with a bait of sugar to a draught of wormwood. He plays yet, like a young prentice the first day, and is not come to his task of melancholy. [[2]All the language he speaks yet is tears, and they serve him well enough to express his necessity.] His hardest labour is his tongue, as if he were loath to use so deceitful an organ; and he is best company with it when he can but prattle. We laugh at his foolish ports,

but his game is our earnest; and his drums, rattles, and hobby-horses, but the emblems and mocking of man's business. His father hath writ him as his own little story, wherein he reads those days of his life that he cannot remember, and sighs to see what innocence he hath out-lived. The elder he grows, he is a stair lower from God; and, like his first father, much worse in his breeches.[3] He is the Christian's example, and the old man's relapse; the one imitates his pureness, and the other falls into his simplicity. Could he put off his body with his little coat, he had got eternity without a burden, and exchanged but one heaven for another.

[4]

II.

A YOUNG RAW PREACHER

Is a bird not yet fledged, that hath hopped out of his nest to be chirping on a hedge, and will be straggling abroad at what peril soever. His backwardness in the university hath set him thus forward; for had he not truanted there, he had not been so hasty a divine. His small standing, and time, hath made him a proficient only in boldness, out of which, and his table-book, he is furnished for a preacher. His collections of study are the notes of sermons, which, taken up at St. Mary's,[4] he utters in the country: and[5] if he write brachigraphy,[5] his stock is so much the better. His writing is more than his reading, for he reads only what he gets without book. Thus accomplished he comes down to his friends, and his first salutation is grace and peace out of the pulpit. His[6] prayer is conceited, and no man remembers his college more at large.[6] The pace of his sermon is a full career, and he runs wildly over hill and dale, till the clock stop him. The labour of it is chiefly in his lungs; and the only thing he has made[7] in it himself, is the faces. He takes on against the pope without mercy, and has a jest still in lavender for Bellarmine: yet he preaches heresy, if it comes in his way, though with a mind, I must needs say, very orthodox.[7] His action is all passion, and his speech interjections. He has an excellent faculty in bemoaning the people, and spits with a very good grace. [His stile is compounded of twenty several men's, only his body imitates some one extraordinary.] He will not draw his handkercher out of his place, nor blow his nose without discretion. His commendation is, that he never looks upon book; and indeed he was never used to it. He preaches but once a year, though twice on Sunday; for the stuff is still the same, only the dressing a little altered: he has more tricks with a sermon, than a taylor with an old cloak, to turn it, and piece it, and at last quite disguise it with a new preface. If he have waded farther in his profession, and would shew reading of his own, his authors are postils, and his school-divinity a catechism. His fashion and demure habit gets him in with some town-precisian, and makes him a guest on Friday nights. You shall know him by his narrow velvet cape, and serge facing; and his ruff, next his hair, the shortest thing about him.[8] The companion of his walk is some zealous tradesman, whom he astonishes with strange points, which they both understand alike. His friends and much painfulness may prefer him to thirty pounds a year, and this means to a chambermaid; with whom we leave him now in the bonds of wedlock:—next Sunday you shall have him again.

III.

A GRAVE DIVINE

Is one that knows the burthen of his calling, and hath studied to make his shoulders sufficient; for which he hath not been hasty to launch forth of his port, the university, but expected the ballast of learning, and the wind of opportunity. Divinity is not the beginning but the end of his studies; to which he takes the ordinary stair, and makes the arts his way. He counts it not prophaneness to be polished with human reading, or to smooth his way[9] by Aristotle to school-divinity. He has sounded both religions, and anchored in the best, and is a protestant out of judgment, not faction; not because his country, but his reason is on this side. The ministry is his choice, not refuge, and yet the pulpit not his itch, but fear. His discourse is substance, not all rhetoric, and he utters more things than words. His speech is not helped with inforced action, but the matter acts itself. He shoots all his meditations at one but; and beats upon his text, not the cushion; making his hearers, not the pulpit groan. In citing of popish errors, he cuts them with arguments, not cudgels them with barren invectives; and labours more to shew the truth of his cause than the spleen. His sermon is limited by the method, not the hour-glass; and his devotion goes along with him out of the pulpit. He comes not up thrice a week, because he would not be idle; nor talks three hours together, because he would not talk nothing: but his tongue preaches at fit times, and his conversation is the every day's exercise. In[10] matters of ceremony, he is not ceremonious, but thinks he owes that reverence to the church to bow his judgement to it, and make more conscience of schism, than a surplice. He esteems the church hierarchy as the church's glory, and however we jar with Rome, would not have our confusion distinguish us. In simoniacal purchases he thinks his soul goes in the bargain, and is loath to come by promotion so dear; yet his worth at length advances him, and the price of his own merit buys him a living. He is no base grater of his tythes, and will not wrangle for the odd egg. The lawyer is the only man he hinders, by whom he is spited for taking up quarrels. He is a main pillar of our church, though not yet dean or canon, and his life our religion's best apology. His death is the last sermon, where, in the pulpit of his bed, he instructs men to die by his example.[8]

[11]

IV.

A MEER DULL PHYSICIAN.

His practice is some business at bedsides, and his speculation an urinal: he is distinguished from an empiric, by a round velvet cap and doctor's gown, yet no man takes[12] degrees more superfluously, for he is doctor howsoever. He is sworn to Galen and Hippocrates, as university men to their statutes, though they never saw them; and his discourse is all aphorisms, though his reading be only Alexis of Piedmont,[9] or the[13] Regiment of Health.[10] The best cure he has done, is upon his own purse, which from a lean sickliness he hath made lusty, and in flesh. His learning consists much in reckoning up the hard names of diseases, and the superscriptions of gally-pots in his apothecary's shop, which are ranked in his shelves, and the doctor's memory. He is, indeed, only languaged in diseases, and speaks Greek many times when he knows not. If he have been but a by-stander at some desperate recovery, he is slandered with it though he be guiltless; and this breeds his reputation, and that his practice, for his skill is merely opinion. Of all odours he likes best the smell of urine, and holds Vespasian's[11] rule, that no gain is unsavory.[14] If you send this once to him you must resolve to be sick howsoever, for he will never leave examining your water, till he has shaked it into a disease:[12] then follows a writ to his drugger in a strange tongue, which he understands, though he cannot conster. If he see you himself, his presence is the worst visitation: for if he cannot heal your sickness, he will be sure to help it. He translates his apothecary's shop into your chamber, and the very windows and benches must take physic. He tells you your malady in Greek, though it be but a cold, or headach; which by good endeavour and diligence he may bring to some moment indeed. His most unfaithful act is, that he leaves a man gasping, and his pretence is, death and he have a quarrel and must not meet; but[15] his fear is, lest the carkass should bleed.[13] Anatomies, and other spectacles of mortality, have hardened him, and he is no more struck with a funeral than a grave-maker. Noble-men use him for a director of their stomach, and ladies for wantonness,[14] especially if he be a proper man.[15] If he be single, he is in league with his she-apothecary; and because it is the physician, the husband is patient. If he have leisure to be idle (that is to study,) he has a smatch at alcumy, and is sick of[16] the philosopher's stone; a disease uncurable, but by an abundant phlebotomy of the purse. His two main opposites are a mountebank and a good woman, and he never shews his learning so much as in an invective against them and their boxes. In conclusion, he is a sucking consumption, and a very brother to the worms, for they are both engendered out of man's corruption.

V.

AN ALDERMAN.

He is venerable in his gown, more in his beard, wherewith he sets not forth so much his own, as the face of a city. You must look on him as one of the town gates, and consider him not as a body, but a corporation. His eminency above others hath made him a man of worship, for he had never been preferred, but that he was worth thousands. He over-sees the commonwealth, as his shop, and it is an argument of his policy, that he[17] has thriven by his craft. He is a rigorous magistrate in his ward; yet his scale of justice is suspected, lest it be like the balances in his warehouse. A ponderous man he is, and substantial, for his weight is commonly extraordinary, and in his preferment nothing rises so much as his belly. His head is of no great depth, yet well furnished; and when it is in conjunction with his brethren, may bring forth a city apophthegm, or some such sage matter. He is one that will not hastily run into error, for he treads with great deliberation, and his judgment consists much in his pace. His discourse is commonly the annals of his mayoralty, and what good government there was in the days of his gold chain, though the door posts were the only things that suffered reformation. He seems most sincerely religious, especially on solemn days; for he comes often to church to make a shew, [and is a part of the quire hangings.] He is the highest stair of his profession, and an example to his trade, what in time they may come to. He makes very much of his authority, but more of his sattin[18] doublet, which, though of good years, bears its age very well, and looks fresh every Sunday: but his scarlet gown is a monument, and lasts from generation to generation.

VI.

A DISCONTENTED MAN

Is one that is fallen out with the world, and will be revenged on himself. Fortune has denied him in something, and he now takes pet, and will be miserable in spite. The root of his disease is a self-humouring pride, and an accustomed tenderness not to be crossed in his fancy; and the occasion commonly of one of these three, a hard father, a peevish wench, or his ambition thwarted. He considered not the nature of the world till he felt it, and all blows fall on him heavier, because they light not first on his expectation. He has now foregone all but his pride, and is yet vain-glorious in the[19] ostentation of his melancholy. His composure of himself is a studied carelessness, with his arms across, and a neglected hanging of his head and cloak; and he is as great an enemy to an hat-band, as fortune. He quarrels at the time and up-starts, and sighs at the neglect of men of parts, that is, such as himself. His life is a perpetual satyr, and he is still girding[16] the age's vanity, when this very anger shews he too much esteems it. He is much displeased to see men merry, and wonders what they can find to laugh at. He never draws his own lips higher than a smile, and frowns wrinkle him before forty. He at last falls into that deadly melancholy to be a bitter hater of men, and is the most apt companion for any mischief. He is the spark that kindles the commonwealth, and the bellows himself to blow it: and if he turn anything, it is commonly one of these, either friar, traitor, or mad-man.

[20]

VII.

AN ANTIQUARY;

He is a man strangly thrifty of time past, and an enemy indeed to his maw, whence he fetches out many things when they are now all rotten and stinking. He is one that hath that unnatural disease to be enamoured of old age and wrinkles, and loves all things (as Dutchmen do cheese,) the better for being mouldy and worm-eaten. He is of our religion, because we say it is most antient; and yet a broken statue would almost make him an idolater. A great admirer he is of the rust of old monuments, and reads only those characters, where time hath eaten out the letters. He will go you forty miles to see a saint's well or a ruined abbey; and there be but a cross or stone foot-stool in the way, he'll be considering it so long, till he forget his journey. His estate consists much in shekels, and Roman coins; and he hath more pictures of Cæsar, than James or Elizabeth.[21] Beggars cozen him with musty things which they have raked from dunghills, and he preserves their rags for precious relicks. He loves no library, but where there are more spiders volumes than authors, and looks with great admiration on the antique work of cobwebs. Printed books he contemns, as a novelty of this latter age, but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly, especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis between every syllable. He would give all the books in his study (which are rarities all,) for one of the old Roman binding, or six lines of Tully in his own hand. His chamber is hung commonly with strange beasts skins, and is a kind of charnel-house of bones extraordinary; and his discourse upon them, if you will hear him, shall last longer. His very attire is that which is the eldest out of fashion, [[AW]and you may pick a criticism out of his breeches.] He never looks upon himself till he is grey-haired,[22] and then he is pleased with his own antiquity. His grave does not fright him, for he has been used to sepulchers, and he likes death the better, because it gathers him to his fathers.

VIII.

A YOUNGER BROTHER.

His elder brother was the Esau, that came out first and left him like Jacob at his heels. His father has done with him, as Pharoah to the children of Israel, that would have them make brick and give them no straw, so he tasks him to be a gentleman, and leaves him nothing to maintain it. The pride of his house has undone him, which the elder's knighthood must sustain, and his beggary that knighthood. His birth and bringing up will not suffer him to descend to the means to get wealth; but he stands at the mercy of the world, and which is worse, of[23] his brother. He is something better than the serving-men; yet they more saucy with him than he bold with the master, who beholds him with a countenance of stern awe, and checks him oftener than his liveries. His brother's old suits and he are much alike in request, and cast off now and then one to the other. Nature hath furnished him with a little more wit upon compassion, for it is like to be his best revenue. If his annuity stretch so far, he is sent to the university, and with great heart-burning takes upon him the ministry, as a profession he is condemned to by his ill fortune. Others take a more crooked path yet, the king's high-way; where at length their vizard is plucked off, and they strike fair for Tyburn: but their brother's pride, not love, gets them a pardon. His last refuge is the Low-countries,[17] where[24] rags and lice are no scandal, where he lives a poor gentleman of a company, and dies without a shirt. The only thing that may better his fortunes is an art he has to make a gentlewoman, wherewith he baits now and then some rich widow that is hungry after his blood. He is commonly discontented and desperate, and the form of his exclamation is, that churl my brother. He loves not his country for this unnatural custom, and would have long since revolted to the Spaniard, but for Kent[18] only, which he holds in admiration.

[25]

IX.

A MEER FORMAL MAN

Is somewhat more than the shape of a man; for he has his length, breadth, and colour. When you have seen his outside, you have looked through him, and need employ your discovery no farther. His reason is merely example, and his action is not guided by his understanding, but he sees other men do thus, and he follows them. He is a negative, for we cannot call him a wise man, but not a fool; nor an honest man, but not a knave; nor a protestant, but not a papist. The chief burden of his brain is the carriage of his body and the setting of his face in a good frame; which he performs the better, because he is not disjointed[26] with other meditations. His religion is a good quiet subject, and he prays as he swears, in the phrase of the land. He is a fair guest, and a fair inviter, and can excuse his good cheer in the accustomed apology. He has some faculty in mangling of a rabbit, and the distribution of his morsel to a neighbour's trencher. He apprehends a jest by seeing men smile, and laughs orderly himself, when it comes to his turn. His businesses with his friends are to visit them, and whilst the business is no more, he can perform this well enough. His discourse is the news that he hath gathered in his walk, and for other matters his discretion is, that he will only what he can, that is, say nothing. His life is like one that runs to the[19]church-walk, to take a turn or two, and so passes. He hath staid in the world to fill a number; and when he is gone, there wants one, and there's an end.

[27]

X.

A CHURCH-PAPIST

Is one that parts his religion betwixt his conscience and his purse, and comes to church not to serve God but the king. The face of the law makes him wear the mask of the gospel, which he uses not as a means to save his soul, but charges. He loves Popery well, but is loth to lose by it; and though he be something scared with the bulls of Rome, yet they are far off, and he is struck with more terror at the apparitor. Once a month he presents himself at the church, to keep off the church-warden, and brings in his body to save his bail. He kneels with the congregation, but prays by himself, and asks God forgiveness for coming thither. If he be forced to stay out a sermon, he pulls his hat over his eyes, and frowns out the hour; and when he comes home, thinks to make amends for this fault by abusing the preacher. His main policy is to shift off the communion, for which he is never unfurnished of a quarrel, and will be sure to be out of charity at Easter;[28] and indeed he lies not, for he has a quarrel to the sacrament. He would make a bad martyr and good traveller, for his conscience is so large he could never wander out of it; and in Constantinople would be circumcised with a reservation. His wife is more zealous and therefore more costly, and he bates her in tires[20] what she stands him in religion. But we leave him hatching plots against the state, and expecting Spinola.[21]

[29]

XI.

A SELF-CONCEITED MAN

Is one that knows himself so well, that he does not know himself. Two excellent well-dones have undone him, and he is guilty of it that first commended him to madness. He is now become his own book, which he pores on continually, yet like a truant reader skips over the harsh places, and surveys only that which is pleasant. In the speculation of his own good parts, his eyes, like a drunkard's, see all double, and his fancy, like an old man's spectacles, make a great letter in a small print. He imagines every place where he comes his theater, and not a look stirring but his spectator; and conceives men's thoughts to be very idle, that is, [only] busy about him. His walk is still in the fashion of a march, and like his opinion unaccompanied, with his eyes most fixed upon his own person, or on others with reflection to himself. If he have done any thing that has past with applause, he is always re-acting it[30] alone, and conceits the extasy his hearers were in at every period. His discourse is all positions and definitive decrees, with thus it must be and thus it is, and he will not humble his authority to prove it. His tenent is always singular and aloof from the vulgar as he can, from which you must not hope to wrest him. He has an excellent humour for an heretick, and in these days made the first Arminian. He prefers Ramus before Aristotle, and Paracelsus before Galen,[22] [and whosoever with most paradox is commended.] He much pities the world that has no more insight in his parts, when he is too well discovered even to this very thought. A flatterer is a dunce to him, for he can tell him nothing but what he knows before: and yet he loves him too, because he is like himself. Men are merciful to him, and let him alone, for if he be once driven from his humour, he is like two inward friends fallen out: his own bitter enemy and[31] discontent presently makes a murder. In sum, he is a bladder blown up with wind, which the least flaw crushes to nothing.

XII.

A TOO IDLY RESERVED MAN

Is one that is a fool with discretion, or a strange piece of politician, that manages the state of himself. His actions are his privy-council, wherein no man must partake beside. He speaks under rule and prescription, and dare not shew his teeth without Machiavel. He converses with his neighbours as he would in Spain, and fears an inquisitive man as much as the inquisition. He suspects all questions for examinations, and thinks you would pick something out of him, and avoids you. His breast is like a gentlewoman's closet, which locks up every toy or trifle, or some bragging mountebank that makes every stinking thing a secret.[32] He delivers you common matters with great conjuration of silence, and whispers you in the ear acts of parliament. You may as soon wrest a tooth from him as a paper, and whatsoever he reads is letters. He dares not talk of great men for fear of bad comments, and he knows not how his words may be misapplied. Ask his opinion, and he tells you his doubt; and he never hears any thing more astonishedly than what he knows before. His words are like the cards at primivist,[23] where 6 is 18, and 7, 21; for[33] they never signify what they sound; but if he tell you he will do a thing, it is as much as if he swore he would not. He is one, indeed, that takes all men to be craftier than they are, and puts himself to a great deal of affliction to hinder their plots and designs, where they mean freely. He has been long a riddle himself, but at last finds Œdipuses; for his over-acted dissimulation discovers him, and men do with him as they would with Hebrew letters, spell him backwards and read him.

[34]

XIII.

A TAVERN

Is a degree, or (if you will,) a pair of stairs above an ale-house, where men are drunk with more credit and apology. If the vintner's nose[24] be at door, it is a sign sufficient, but the absence of this is supplied by the ivy-bush: the rooms are ill breathed like the drinkers that have been washed well over night, and are smelt-to fasting next morning; not furnished with beds apt to be defiled, but more necessary implements, stools, table, and a chamber-pot. It is a broacher of more news than hogsheads, and more jests than news, which are sucked up here by some spongy brain, and from thence squeezed into a comedy. Men come here to make merry, but indeed make a noise, and this musick above is[35] answered with the clinking below. The drawers are the civilest people in it, men of good bringing up, and howsoever we esteem of them, none can boast more justly of their high calling. 'Tis the best theater of natures, where they are truly acted, not played, and the business as in the rest of the world up and down, to wit, from the bottom of the cellar to the great chamber. A melancholy man would find here matter to work upon, to see heads as brittle as glasses, and often broken; men come hither to quarrel, and come hither to be made friends: and if Plutarch will lend me his simile, it is even Telephus's sword that makes wounds and cures them. It is the common consumption of the afternoon, and the murderer or maker-away of a rainy day. It is the torrid zone that scorches the[25] face, and tobacco the gun-powder that blows it up. Much harm would be done, if the charitable vintner had not water ready for these flames. A house of sin you may call it, but not a house of[36] darkness, for the candles are never out; and it is like those countries far in the North, where it is as clear at mid-night as at mid-day. After a long sitting, it becomes like a street in a dashing shower, where the spouts are flushing above, and the conduits running below, while the Jordans like swelling rivers overflow their banks. To give you the total reckoning of it; it is the busy man's recreation, the idle man's business, the melancholy man's sanctuary, the stranger's welcome, the inns-of-court man's entertainment, the scholar's kindness, and the citizen's courtesy. It is the study of sparkling wits, and a cup of canary[26] their book, whence we leave them.

[37]

XIV.

A SHARK

Is one whom all other means have failed, and he now lives of himself. He is some needy cashiered fellow, whom the world hath oft flung off, yet still clasps again, and is like one a drowning, fastens upon anything that is next at hand. Amongst other of his shipwrecks he has happily lost shame, and[38] this want supplies him. No man puts his brain to more use than he, for his life is a daily invention, and each meal a new stratagem. He has an excellent memory for his acquaintance, though there passed but how do you betwixt them seven years ago, it shall suffice for an embrace, and that for money. He offers you a pottle of sack out of joy to see you, and in requital of his courtesy you can do no less than pay for it. He is fumbling with his purse-strings, as a school-boy with his points, when he is going to be whipped, 'till the master, weary with long stay, forgives him. When the reckoning is paid, he says, It must not be so, yet is strait pacified, and cries, What remedy? His borrowings are like subsidies, each man a shilling or two, as he can well dispend; which they lend him, not with a hope to be repaid, but that he will come no more. He holds a strange tyrrany over men, for he is their debtor, and they fear him as a creditor. He is proud of any employment, though it be but to carry commendations, which he will[39] be sure to deliver at eleven of the clock.[27] They in courtesy bid him stay, and he in manners cannot deny them. If he find but a good look to assure his welcome, he becomes their half-boarder, and haunts the threshold so long 'till he forces good nature to the necessity of a quarrel. Publick invitations he will not wrong with his absence, and is the best witness of the sheriff's hospitality.[28] Men shun him at length as they would do an infection, and he is never crossed in his way[40] if there be but a lane to escape him. He has done with the age as his clothes to him, hung on as long as he could, and at last drops off.

XV.

A CARRIER

Is his own hackney-man; for he lets himself out to travel as well as his horses. He is the ordinary embassador between friend and friend, the father and the son, and brings rich presents to the one, but never returns any back again. He is no unlettered man, though in shew simple; for questionless, he has much in his budget, which he can utter too in fit time and place. He is [like] the vault[29] in Gloster church,[41] that conveys whispers at a distance, for he takes the sound out of your mouth at York, and makes it be heard as far as London. He is the young student's joy and expectation, and the most accepted guest, to whom they lend a willing hand to discharge him of his burden. His first greeting is commonly, Your friends are well; [and to prove it][30] in a piece of gold delivers their blessing. You would think him a churlish blunt fellow, but they find in him many tokens of humanity. He is a great afflicter of the high-ways, and[42] beats them out of measure; which injury is sometimes revenged by the purse-taker, and then the voyage miscarries. No man domineers more in his inn, nor calls his host unreverently with more presumption, and this arrogance proceeds out of the strength of his horses. He forgets not his load where he takes his ease, for he is drunk commonly before he goes to bed. He is like the prodigal child, still packing away and still returning again. But let him pass.

XVI.

A YOUNG MAN;

He is now out of nature's protection, though not yet able to guide himself; but left loose to the world and fortune, from which the weakness of his childhood preserved him; and now his strength exposes him. He is, indeed, just of age to be miserable, yet in his own conceit first begins[43] to be happy; and he is happier in this imagination, and his misery not felt is less. He sees yet but the outside of the world and men, and conceives them, according to their appearing, glister, and out of this ignorance believes them. He pursues all vanities for happiness, and [31][enjoys them best in this fancy.] His reason serves, not to curb but understand his appetite, and prosecute the motions thereof with a more eager earnestness. Himself is his own temptation, and needs not Satan, and the world will come hereafter. He leaves repentance for grey hairs, and performs it in being covetous. He is mingled with the vices of the age as the fashion and custom, with which he longs to be acquainted, and sins to better his understanding. He conceives his youth as the season of his lust, and the hour wherein he ought to be bad; and because he would not lose his time, spends it. He distastes religion as a sad thing, and is six years elder for a thought of heaven. He scorns and fears,[44] and yet hopes for old age, but dare not imagine it with wrinkles. He loves and hates with the same inflammation, and when the heat is over is cool alike to friends and enemies. His friendship is seldom so stedfast, but that lust, drink, or anger may overturn it. He offers you his blood to-day in kindness, and is ready to take yours to-morrow. He does seldom any thing which he wishes not to do again, and is only wise after a misfortune. He suffers much for his knowledge, and a great deal of folly it is makes him a wise man. He is free from many vices, by being not grown to the performance, and is only more virtuous out of weakness. Every action is his danger, and every man his ambush. He is a ship without pilot or tackling, and only good fortune may steer him. If he scape this age, he has scaped a tempest, and may live to be a man.

[45]

XVII.

AN OLD COLLEGE BUTLER

Is none of the worst students in the house, for he keeps the set hours at his book more duly than any. His authority is great over men's good names, which he charges many times with shrewd aspersions, which they hardly wipe off without payment. [His box and counters prove him to be a man of reckoning, yet] he is stricter in his accounts than a usurer, and delivers not a farthing without writing. He doubles the pains of Gollobelgicus,[32] for his books go out once a[46] quarter, and they are much in the same nature, brief notes and sums of affairs, and are out of request as soon. His comings in are like a taylor's, from the shreds of bread, [the] chippings and remnants of a broken crust; excepting his vails from the barrel, which poor folks buy for their hogs but drink themselves. He divides an halfpenny loaf with more subtlety than Keckerman,[33] and sub-divides the à primo ortum so nicely, that a stomach of great capacity can hardly apprehend it. He is a very sober man, considering his manifold temptations of[47] drink and strangers; and if he be overseen, 'tis within his own liberties, and no man ought to take exception. He is never so well pleased with his place as when a gentleman is beholden to him for shewing him the buttery, whom he greets with a cup of single beer and sliced manchet,[34] and tells him it is the fashion of the college. He domineers over freshmen when they first come to the hatch, and puzzles them with strange language of cues and cees, and some broken Latin which he has learnt at his bin. His faculties extraordinary is the warming of a pair of cards, and telling out a dozen of counters for post and pair, and no man is more methodical in these businesses. Thus he spends his age till the tap of it is run out, and then a fresh one is set abroach.

[48]

XVIII.

AN UPSTART COUNTRY KNIGHT

[Is a holiday clown, and differs only in the stuff of his clothes, not the stuff of himself,][35] for he bare the king's sword before he had arms to wield it; yet being once laid o'er the shoulder with a knighthood, he finds the herald his friend. His father was a man of good stock, though but a tanner or usurer; he purchased the land, and his son the title. He has doffed off the name of a [36][country fellow,] but the look not so easy, and his face still bears a relish of churne-milk. He is guarded with more gold lace than all the gentlemen of the country, yet his body makes his clothes still out of fashion. His house-keeping is seen much in the distinct families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels, and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A[49] hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility,[37] and is exceeding ambitious to seem delighted in the sport, and have his fist gloved with[50] his jesses.[38] A justice of peace he is to domineer in his parish, and do his neighbour wrong with more right.[39] He will be drunk with his hunters for company, and stain his gentility with droppings of ale. He is fearful of being sheriff of the shire by instinct, and dreads the assize-week as much as the prisoner. In sum, he's but a clod of his own earth, or his land is the dunghill and he the cock that crows over it: and commonly his race is quickly run, and his children's children, though they escape hanging, return to the place from whence they came.

[51]

XIX.

AN IDLE GALLANT

Is one that was born and shaped for his cloaths; and, if Adam had not fallen, had lived to no purpose. He gratulates therefore the first sin, and fig-leaves that were an occasion of [his] bravery. His first care is his dress, the next his body, and in the uniting of these two lies his soul and its faculties. He observes London trulier than the terms, and his business is the street, the stage, the court, and those places where a proper man is best shown. If he be qualified in gaming extraordinary, he is so much the more genteel and compleat, and he learns the best oaths for the purpose. These are a great part of his discourse, and he is as curious in their newness as the fashion. His other talk is ladies and such pretty things, or some jest at a play. His pick-tooth bears a great part in his discourse, so does his body, the upper parts whereof are[52] as starched as his linnen, and perchance use the same laundress. He has learned to ruffle his face from his boot, and takes great delight in his walk to hear his spurs gingle. Though his life pass somewhat slidingly, yet he seems very careful of the time, for he is still drawing his watch out of his pocket, and spends part of his hours in numbering them. He is one never serious but with his taylor, when he is in conspiracy for the next device. He is furnished with his jests, as some wanderer with sermons, some three for all congregations, one especially against the scholar, a man to him much ridiculous, whom he knows by no other definition, but a silly fellow in black. He is a kind of walking mercer's shop, and shows you one stuff to-day and another to-morrow; an ornament to the room he comes in as the fair bed and hangings be; and it is meerly ratable accordingly, fifty or a hundred pounds as his suit is. His main ambition is to get a knight-hood, and then an old lady, which if he be happy in, he fills the stage and a coach so much longer: Otherwise, himself[53] and his cloaths grow stale together, and he is buried commonly ere he dies in the gaol, or the country.

XX.

A CONSTABLE

Is a vice-roy in the street, and no man stands more upon't that he is the king's officer. His jurisdiction extends to the next stocks, where he has commission for the heels only, and sets the rest of the body at liberty. He is a scarecrow to that ale-house, where he drinks not his morning draught, and apprehends a drunkard for not standing in the king's name. Beggars fear him more than the justice, and as much as the whip-stock, whom he delivers over to his subordinate magistrates, the bridewell-man, and the beadle. He is a great stickler in the tumults of double jugs, and ventures his head by his place, which is broke many[54] times to keep whole the peace. He is never so much in his majesty as in his night-watch, where he sits in his chair of state, a shop-stall, and invironed with a guard of halberts, examines all passengers. He is a very careful man in his office, but if he stay up after midnight you shall take him napping.

XXI.

A DOWN-RIGHT SCHOLAR

Is one that has much learning in the ore, unwrought and untried, which time and experience fashions and refines. He is good metal in the inside, though rough and unscoured without, and therefore hated of the courtier, that is quite contrary. The time has got a vein of making him ridiculous, and men laugh at him by tradition, and no unlucky absurdity but is put upon his profession, and done like a scholar. But his fault is only this, that his mind is [somewhat][55] too much taken up with his mind, and his thoughts not loaden with any carriage besides. He has not put on the quaint garb of the age, which is now a man's [Imprimis and all the Item.[40]] He has not humbled his meditations to the industry of complement, nor afflicted his brain in an elaborate leg. His body is not set upon nice pins, to be turning and flexible for every motion, but his scrape is homely and his nod worse. He cannot kiss his hand and cry, madam, nor talk idle enough to bear her company. His smacking of a gentlewoman is somewhat too savory, and he mistakes her nose for her lips. A very woodcock would puzzle him in carving, and he wants the logick of a capon. He has not the glib faculty of sliding over a tale, but his words come squeamishly out of his mouth, and the laughter commonly before the jest. He names this word college too often, and his discourse beats too much on the university. The perplexity of mannerliness will not[56] let him feed, and he is sharp set at an argument when he should cut his meat. He is discarded for a gamester at all games but one and thirty,[41] and at tables he reaches not beyond doublets. His fingers are not long and drawn out to handle a fiddle, but his fist clunched with the habit of disputing. He ascends a horse somewhat sinisterly, though not on the left side, and they both go jogging in grief together. He is exceedingly censured by the inns-of-court men, for that heinous vice being out of fashion. He cannot speak to a dog in his own dialect, and understands Greek better than the language of a falconer. He has been used to a dark room, and dark cloathes, and his eyes dazzle at a sattin suit. The hermitage of his study, has made him somewhat uncouth in the world, and men make him worse by staring on him. Thus is he [silly[57] and] ridiculous, and it continues with him for some quarter of a year out of the university. But practise him a little in men, and brush him over with good company, and he shall out-ballance those glisterers, as far as a solid substance does a feather, or gold, gold-lace.

XXII.

A PLAIN COUNTRY FELLOW

Is one that manures his ground well, but lets himself lye fallow and untilled. He has reason enough to do his business, and not enough to be idle or melancholy. He seems to have the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar, for his conversation is among beasts, and his tallons none of the shortest, only he eats not grass, because he loves not sallets. His hand guides the plough, and the plough his thoughts, and his ditch and land-mark is the very mound of his meditations. He[58] expostulates with his oxen very understandingly, and speaks gee, and ree, better than English. His mind is not much distracted with objects, but if a good fat cow come in his way, he stands dumb and astonished, and though his haste be never so great, will fix here half an hour's contemplation. His habitation is some poor thatched roof, distinguished from his barn by the loopholes that let out smoak, which the rain had long since washed through, but for the double ceiling of bacon on the inside, which has hung there from his grandsire's time, and is yet to make rashers for posterity. His dinner is his other work, for he sweats at it as much as at his labour; he is a terrible fastner on a piece of beef, and you may hope to stave the guard off sooner. His religion is a part of his copy-hold, which he takes from his land-lord, and refers it wholly to his discretion: Yet if he give him leave he is a good Christian to his power, (that is,) comes to church in his best cloaths, and sits there with his neighbours, where he is capable only of two prayers, for rain, and[59] fair weather. He apprehends God's blessings only in a good year, or a fat pasture, and never praises him but on good ground. Sunday he esteems a day to make merry in, and thinks a bag-pipe as essential to it as evening-prayer, where he walks very solemnly after service, with his hands coupled behind him, and censures the dancing of his parish. [His compliment with his neighbour is a good thump on the back, and his salutation commonly some blunt curse.] He thinks nothing to be vices, but pride and ill husbandry, from which he will gravely dissuade the youth, and has some thrifty hob-nail proverbs to clout his discourse. He is a niggard all the week, except only market-day, where, if his corn sell well, he thinks he may be drunk with a good conscience. His feet never stink so unbecomingly as when he trots after a lawyer in Westminster-hall, and even cleaves the ground with hard scraping in beseeching his worship to take his money. He is sensible of no calamity but the burning a stack of corn or the overflowing of[60] a meadow, and thinks Noah's flood the greatest plague that ever was, not because it drowned the world, but spoiled the grass. For death he is never troubled, and if he get in but his harvest before, let it come when it will, he cares not.

XXIII.

A PLAYER.

He knows the right use of the world, wherein he comes to play a part and so away. His life is not idle, for it is all action, and no man need be more wary in his doings, for the eyes of all men are upon him. His profession has in it a kind of contradiction, for none is more disliked, and yet none more applauded; and he has the misfortune of some scholar, too much wit makes him a fool. He is like our painting gentlewomen, seldom in his own face, seldomer in his cloaths; and he pleases,[61] the better he counterfeits, except only when he is disguised with straw for gold lace. He does not only personate on the stage, but sometimes in the street, for he is masked still in the habit of a gentleman. His parts find him oaths and good words, which he keeps for his use and discourse, and makes shew with them of a fashionable companion. He is tragical on the stage, but rampant in the tiring-house,[42] and swears oaths there which he never conned. The waiting women spectators are over-ears in love with him, and ladies send for him to act in their chambers. Your inns-of-court men were undone but for him, he is their chief guest and employment, and the sole business that makes them afternoon's-men. The poet only is his tyrant, and he is bound to make his friend's friend drunk at his charge. Shrove-Tuesday he fears as much as the bauds, and Lent[43] is more damage to him than the[62] butcher. He was never so much discredited as in one act, and that was of parliament, which gives hostlers priviledge before him, for which he abhors it more than a corrupt judge. But to give him his due, one well-furnished actor has enough in him for five common gentlemen, and, if he have a good body, [for six, and] for resolution he shall challenge any Cato, for it has been his practice to die bravely.

[63]

XXIV.

A DETRACTOR

Is one of a more cunning and active envy, wherewith he gnaws not foolishly himself, but throws it abroad and would have it blister others. He is commonly some weak parted fellow, and worse minded, yet is strangely ambitious to match others, not by mounting their worth, but bringing them down with his tongue to his own poorness. He is indeed like the red dragon that pursued the woman, for when he cannot over-reach another, he opens his mouth and throws a flood after to drown him. You cannot anger him worse than to do well, and he hates you more bitterly for this, than if you had cheated him of his patrimony with your own discredit. He is always slighting the general opinion, and wondering why such and such men should be applauded. Commend a good divine, he cries postilling; a philologer, pedantry; a poet, rhiming; a school-man,[64] dull wrangling; a sharp conceit, boyishness; an honest man, plausibility. He comes to publick things not to learn, but to catch, and if there be but one solœcism, that is all he carries away. He looks on all things with a prepared sowerness, and is still furnished with a pish beforehand, or some musty proverb that disrelishes all things whatsoever. If fear of the company make him second a commendation, it is like a law-writ, always with a clause of exception, or to smooth his way to some greater scandal. He will grant you something, and bate more; and this bating shall in conclusion take away all he granted. His speech concludes still with an Oh! but,—and I could wish one thing amended; and this one thing shall be enough to deface all his former commendations. He will be very inward with a man to fish some bad out of him, and make his slanders hereafter more authentick, when it is said a friend reported it. He will inveigle you to naughtiness to get your good name into his clutches; he will be your pandar to have you on the hip for a whore-master, and make[65] you drunk to shew you reeling. He passes the more plausibly because all men have a smatch of his humour, and it is thought freeness which is malice. If he can say nothing of a man, he will seem to speak riddles, as if he could tell strange stories if he would; and when he has racked his invention to the utmost, he ends;—but I wish him well, and therefore must hold my peace. He is always listening and enquiring after men, and suffers not a cloak to pass by him unexamined. In brief, he is one that has lost all good himself, and is loth to find it in another.

XXV.

A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF THE UNIVERSITY

Is one that comes there to wear a gown, and to say hereafter, he has been at the university. His father sent him thither[66] because he heard there were the best fencing and dancing-schools; from these he has his education, from his tutor the over-sight. The first element of his knowledge is to be shewn the colleges, and initiated in a tavern by the way, which hereafter he will learn of himself. The two marks of his seniority, is the bare velvet of his gown, and his proficiency at tennis, where when he can once play a set, he is a fresh man no more. His study has commonly handsome shelves, his books neat silk strings, which he shews to his father's man, and is loth to unty[44] or take down for fear of misplacing. Upon foul days for recreation he retires thither, and looks over the pretty book his tutor reads to him, which is commonly some short[67] history, or a piece of Euphormio; for which his tutor gives him money to spend next day. His main loytering is at the library, where he studies arms and books of honour, and turns a gentleman critick in pedigrees. Of all things he endures not to be mistaken for a scholar, and hates a black suit though it be made of sattin. His companion is ordinarily some stale fellow, that has been notorious for an ingle to gold hatbands,[45] whom he admires at first, afterward scorns. If he have spirit or wit he may light of better company, and may learn some flashes of wit, which may do him knight's service in the country hereafter. But he is now gone to the inns-of-court, where he studies to forget what he learned before, his acquaintance and the fashion.

[68]

XXVI.

A WEAK MAN

Is a child at man's estate, one whom nature huddled up in haste, and left his best part unfinished. The rest of him is grown to be a man, only his brain stays behind. He is one that has not improved his first rudiments, nor attained any proficiency by his stay in the world: but we may speak of him yet as when he was in the bud, a good harmless nature, a well meaning mind[46] [and no more.] It is his misery that he now wants a tutor, and is too old to have one. He is two steps above a fool, and a great many more below a wise man; yet the fool is oft given him, and by those whom he esteems most. Some tokens of him are,—he loves men better upon relation than experience, for he is exceedingly enamoured of strangers, and none quicklier a weary of his friend. He charges you at first meeting with all[69] his secrets, and on better acquaintance grows more reserved. Indeed he is one that mistakes much his abusers for friends, and his friends for enemies, and he apprehends your hate in nothing so much as in good council. One that is flexible with any thing but reason, and then only perverse. [A servant to every tale and flatterer, and whom the last man still works over.] A great affecter of wits and such prettinesses; and his company is costly to him, for he seldom has it but invited. His friendship commonly is begun in a supper, and lost in lending money. The tavern is a dangerous place to him, for to drink and be drunk is with him all one, and his brain is sooner quenched than his thirst. He is drawn into naughtiness with company, but suffers alone, and the bastard commonly laid to his charge. One that will be patiently abused, and take exception a month after when he understands it, and then be abused again into a reconcilement; and you cannot endear him more than by cozening him, and it is a temptation to those that would not. One discoverable in all silliness to all men[70] but himself, and you may take any man's knowledge of him better than his own. He will promise the same thing to twenty, and rather than deny one break with all. One that has no power over himself, over his business, over his friends, but a prey and pity to all; and if his fortunes once sink, men quickly cry, Alas!—and forget him.

XXVII.

A TOBACCO-SELLER

Is the only man that finds good in it which others brag of but do not; for it is meat, drink, and clothes to him. No man opens his ware with greater seriousness, or challenges your judgment more in the approbation. His shop is the rendezvous of spitting, where men dialogue with their noses, and their communication is smoak.[47] It is the[71] place only where Spain is commended and preferred before England itself. He should be well experienced in the world, for he has daily trial of men's nostrils, and none is better acquainted with humours. He is the piecing commonly of some other trade, which is bawd to his tobacco, and that to his wife, which is the flame that follows this smoak.

XXVIII.

A POT-POET

Is the dregs of wit, yet mingled with good drink may have some relish. His inspirations are more real than others, for they do but feign a God, but he has his by him. His verse runs like the tap, and his invention as the barrel, ebbs and flows at the mercy of the spiggot. In thin drink he aspires not above a ballad, but a cup of sack inflames him, and sets his muse and nose a-fire together. The press is his mint, and[72] stamps him now and then a six-pence or two in reward of the baser coin his pamphlet. His works would scarce sell for three half-pence, though they are given oft for three shillings, but for the pretty title that allures the country gentleman; for which the printer maintains him in ale a fortnight. His verses are like his clothes miserable centoes[48] and patches, yet their pace is not altogether so hobbling as an almanack's. The death of a great man or the burning[49] of a house furnish him with an argument, and the nine muses are out strait in mourning gowns, and Melpomene cries fire! fire! [His other poems are but briefs in rhime, and like the poor Greeks collections to redeem from captivity.] He is a man now much employed in commendations of our navy, and a bitter inveigher against the Spaniard. His frequentest works go out in single sheets,[73] and are chanted from market to market to a vile tune and a worse throat; whilst the poor country wench melts like her butter to hear them. And these are the stories of some men of Tyburn, or a strange monster out of Germany;[50] or, sitting in a bawdy-house, he writes God's judgments. He drops away at last in some obscure painted[74] cloth, to which himself made the verses,[51] and his life, like a cann too full, spills upon the bench. He leaves twenty shillings on the score, which my hostess loses.

XXIX.

A PLAUSIBLE MAN

Is one that would fain run an even path in the world, and jut against no man. His endeavour is not to offend, and his aim the general opinion. His conversation is a kind of continued compliment, and his life a practice of manners. The relation he[75] bears to others, a kind of fashionable respect, not friendship but friendliness, which is equal to all and general, and his kindnesses seldom exceed courtesies. He loves not deeper mutualities, because he would not take sides, nor hazard himself on displeasures, which he principally avoids. At your first acquaintance with him he is exceeding kind and friendly, and at your twentieth meeting after but friendly still. He has an excellent command over his patience and tongue, especially the last, which he accommodates always to the times and persons, and speaks seldom what is sincere, but what is civil. He is one that uses all companies, drinks all healths, and is reasonable cool in all religions. [He considers who are friends to the company, and speaks well where he is sure to hear of it again.] He can listen to a foolish discourse with an applausive attention, and conceal his laughter at nonsense. Silly men much honour and esteem him, because by his fair reasoning with them as with men of understanding, he puts them[76] into an erroneous opinion of themselves, and makes them forwarder hereafter to their own discovery. He is one rather well[52] thought on than beloved, and that love he has is more of whole companies together than any one in particular. Men gratify him notwithstanding with a good report, and whatever vices he has besides, yet having no enemies, he is sure to be an honest fellow.

XXX.

A BOWL-ALLEY

Is the place where there are three things thrown away beside bowls, to wit, time, money, and curses, and the last ten for one. The best sport in it is the gamesters, and he enjoys it that looks on and bets not. It is the school of wrangling, and worse than the schools, for men will cavil here for a hair's[77] breadth, and make a stir where a straw would end the controversy. No antick screws men's bodies into such strange flexures, and you would think them here senseless, to speak sense to their bowl, and put their trust in intreaties for a good cast. The betters are the factious noise of the alley, or the gamesters beadsmen that pray for them. They are somewhat like those that are cheated by great men, for they lose their money and must say nothing. It is the best discovery of humours, especially in the losers, where you have fine variety of impatience, whilst some fret, some rail, some swear, and others more ridiculously comfort themselves with philosophy. To give you the moral of it; it is the emblem of the world, or the world's ambition: where most are short, or over, or wide or wrong-biassed, and some few justle in to the mistress fortune. And it is here as in the court, where the nearest are most spited, and all blows aimed at the toucher.[78]

XXXI.

THE WORLD'S WISE MAN

Is an able and sufficient wicked man: It is a proof of his sufficiency that he is not called wicked, but wise. A man wholly determined in himself and his own ends, and his instruments herein any thing that will do it. His friends are a part of his engines, and as they serve to his works, used or laid by: Indeed he knows not this thing of friend, but if he give you the name, it is a sign he has a plot on you. Never more active in his businesses, than when they are mixed with some harm to others; and it is his best play in this game to strike off and lie in the place: Successful commonly in these undertakings, because he passes smoothly those rubs which others stumble at, as conscience and the like; and gratulates himself much in this advantage. Oaths and falshood he counts the nearest way, and loves not by any means to go about. He[79] has many fine quips at this folly of plain dealing, but his "tush!" is greatest at religion; yet he uses this too, and virtue and good words, but is less dangerously a devil than a saint. He ascribes all honesty to an unpractisedness in the world, and conscience a thing merely for children. He scorns all that are so silly to trust[53] him, and only not scorns his enemy, especially if as bad as himself: he fears him as a man well armed and provided, but sets boldly on good natures, as the most vanquishable. One that seriously admires those worst princes, as Sforza, Borgia, and Richard the third; and calls matters of deep villany things of difficulty. To whom murders are but resolute acts, and treason a business of great consequence. One whom two or three countries make up to this compleatness, and he has travelled for the purpose. His deepest indearment is a communication of mischief, and then only you have him fast. His conclusion is commonly one of these two, either a great man, or hanged.

[80]

XXXII.

A SURGEON

Is one that has some business about this building or little house of man, whereof nature is as it were the tiler, and he the plaisterer. It is ofter out of reparations than an old parsonage, and then he is set on work to patch it again. He deals most with broken commodities, as a broken head or a mangled face, and his gains are very ill got, for he lives by the hurts of the commonwealth. He differs from a physician as a sore does from a disease, or the sick from those that are not whole, the one distempers you within, the other blisters you without. He complains of the decay of valour in these days, and sighs for that slashing age of sword and buckler; and thinks the law against duels was made meerly to wound his vocation. He had been long since undone if the charity of the stews had not relieved him, from whom[81] he has his tribute as duly as the pope; or a wind-fall sometimes from a tavern, if a quart pot hit right. The rareness of his custom makes him pitiless when it comes, and he holds a patient longer than our [spiritual] courts a cause. He tells you what danger you had been in if he had staid but a minute longer, and though it be but a pricked finger, he makes of it much matter. He is a reasonable cleanly man, considering the scabs he has to deal with, and your finest ladies are now and then beholden to him for their best dressings. He curses old gentlewomen and their charity that makes his trade their alms; but his envy is never stirred so much as when gentlemen go over to fight upon Calais sands,[54] whom he wishes drowned e'er they come there, rather than the French shall get his custom.

[82]

XXXIII.

A CONTEMPLATIVE MAN

Is a scholar in this great university the world; and the same his book and study. He cloysters not his meditations in the narrow darkness of a room, but sends them abroad with his eyes, and his brain travels with his feet. He looks upon man from a high tower, and sees him trulier at this distance in his infirmities and poorness. He scorns to mix himself in men's actions, as he would to act upon a stage; but sits[83] aloft on the scaffold a censuring spectator. [He will not lose his time by being busy, or make so poor a use of the world as to hug and embrace it.] Nature admits him as a partaker of her sports, and asks his approbation as it were of her own works and variety. He comes not in company, because he would not be solitary, but finds discourse enough with himself, and his own thoughts are his excellent playfellows. He looks not upon a thing as a yawning stranger at novelties, but his search is more mysterious and inward, and he spells heaven out of earth. He knits his observations together, and makes a ladder of them all to climb to God. He is free from vice, because he has no occasion to imploy it, and is above those ends that make man wicked. He has learnt all can here be taught him, and comes now to heaven to see more.[84]

XXXIV.

A SHE PRECISE HYPOCRITE

Is one in whom good women suffer, and have their truth misinterpreted by her folly. She is one, she knows not what her self if you ask her, but she is indeed one that has taken a toy at the fashion of religion, and is enamoured of the new fangle. She is a nonconformist in a close stomacher and ruff of Geneva print,[55] and her purity consists much in her linnen. She has heard of the rag of Rome, and thinks it a very sluttish religion, and rails at the whore of Babylon for a very naughty woman. She has left[85] her virginity as a relick of popery, and marries in her tribe without a ring. Her devotion at the church is much in the turning up of her eye; and turning down the leaf in her book, when she hears named chapter and verse. When she comes home, she commends the sermon for the scripture, and two hours. She loves preaching better then praying, and of preachers, lecturers; and thinks the week day's exercise far more edifying than the Sunday's. Her oftest gossipings are sabbath-day's journeys, where, (though an enemy to superstition,) she will go in pilgrimage five mile to a silenced minister, when there is a better sermon in her own parish. She doubts of the virgin Mary's salvation, and dares not[86] saint her, but knows her own place in heaven as perfectly as the pew she has a key to. She is so taken up with faith she has no room for charity, and understands no good works but what are wrought on the sampler. She accounts nothing vices but superstition and an oath, and thinks adultery a less sin than to swear by my truly. She rails at other women by the names of Jezebel and Dalilah; and calls her own daughters Rebecca and Abigail, and not Ann but Hannah. She suffers them not to learn on the virginals,[56] because of their affinity with organs, but is reconciled to the bells for the chimes sake, since they were reformed to the tune of a psalm. She overflows so with the bible, that she spills it upon every occasion, and will not cudgel her maids without scripture. It is a question whether she is more troubled with the Devil, or the Devil with her: She is always challenging and daring[87] him, and her weapon [[57]is the Practice of Piety.] Nothing angers her so much as that women cannot preach, and in this point only thinks the Brownist erroneous; but what she cannot at the church she does at the table, where she prattles more than any against sense and Antichrist, 'till a capon's wing silence her. She expounds the priests of Baal, reading ministers, and thinks the salvation of that parish as desperate as the Turks. She is a main derider to her capacity of those that are not her preachers, and censures all sermons but bad ones. If her husband be a tradesman, she helps him to customers, howsoever to good cheer, and they are a most faithful couple at these meetings, for they never fail. Her conscience is like others lust, never satisfied, and you might better answer Scotus than her scruples. She is one that thinks she performs all her duties to God in hearing, and shews the fruits of it in talking. She is more fiery[88] against the may-pole than her husband, and thinks she might do a Phineas' act to break the pate of the fidler. She is an everlasting argument, but I am weary of her.

XXXV.

A SCEPTICK IN RELIGION

Is one that hangs in the balance with all sorts of opinions, whereof not one but stirs him and none sways him. A man guiltier of credulity than he is taken to be; for it is out of his belief of every thing, that he fully believes nothing. Each religion scares him from its contrary: none persuades him to itself. He would be wholly a Christian, but that he is something of an atheist, and wholly an atheist, but that he is partly a Christian; and a perfect heretic, but that there are so many to distract him. He finds reason in all opinions, truth in none: indeed the least reason perplexes him, and[89] the best will not satisfy him. He is at most a confused and wild Christian, not specialized by any form, but capable of all. He uses the land's religion, because it is next him, yet he sees not why he may not take the other, but he chuses this, not as better, but because there is not a pin to choose. He finds doubts and scruples better than resolves them, and is always too hard for himself. His learning is too much for his brain, and his judgment too little for his learning, and his over-opinion of both, spoils all. Pity it was his mischance of being a scholar; for it does only distract and irregulate him, and the world by him. He hammers much in general upon our opinion's uncertainty, and the possibility of erring makes him not venture on what is true. He is troubled at this naturalness of religion to countries, that protestantism should be born so in England and popery abroad, and that fortune and the stars should so much share in it. He likes not this connection of the common-weal and divinity, and fears it may be an arch-practice[90] of state. In our differences with Rome he is strangely unfixed, and a new man every new day, as his last discourse-book's meditations transport him. He could like the gray hairs of popery, did not some dotages there stagger him: he would come to us sooner, but our new name affrights him. He is taken with their miracles, but doubts an imposture; he conceives of our doctrine better, but it seems too empty and naked. He cannot drive into his fancy the circumscription of truth to our corner, and is as hardly persuaded to think their old legends true. He approves well of our faith, and more of their works, and is sometimes much affected at the zeal of Amsterdam. His conscience interposes itself betwixt duellers, and whilst it would part both, is by both wounded. He will sometimes propend much to us upon the reading a good writer, and at Bellarmine[58] recoils as far back again; and[91] the fathers justle him from one side to another. Now Socinus[59] and Vorstius[60] afresh torture[92] him, and he agrees with none worse than himself. He puts his foot into heresies tenderly, as a cat in the water, and pulls it out again, and still something unanswered delays him; yet he bears away some parcel of each, and you may sooner pick all religions out of him than one. He cannot think so many wise men should be in error, nor so many honest men out of the way, and his wonder is double when he sees these oppose one another. He hates authority as the tyrant of reason, and you cannot anger him worse than with a father's dixit, and yet that many are not persuaded with reason, shall authorise his doubt. In sum,[93] his whole life is a question, and his salvation a greater, which death only concludes, and then he is resolved.

XXXVI.

AN ATTORNEY.

His antient beginning was a blue coat, since a livery, and his hatching under a lawyer; whence, though but pen-feathered, he hath now nested for himself, and with his boarded pence purchased an office. Two desks and a quire of paper set him up, where he now sits in state for all corners. We can call him no great author, yet he writes very much and with the infamy of the court is maintained in his libels.[61] He has some smatch of a scholar, and yet uses Latin very hardly; and lest it should accuse him, cuts[94] it off in the midst, and will not let it speak out. He is, contrary to great men, maintained by his followers, that is, his poor country clients, that worship him more than their landlords, and be they never such churls, he looks for their courtesy. He first racks them soundly himself, and then delivers them to the lawyer for execution. His looks are very solicitous, importing much haste and dispatch, he is never without his hands full of business, that is—of paper. His skin becomes at last as dry as his parchment, and his face as intricate as the most winding cause. He talks statutes as fiercely as if he had mooted[62] seven years in the inns of court, when all his skill is stuck in his girdle, or in his office-window. Strife and wrangling have made him rich, and he is thankful to[95] his benefactor, and nourishes it. If he live in a country village, he makes all his neighbours good subjects; for there shall be nothing done but what there is law for. His business gives him not leave to think of his conscience, and when the time, or term of his life is going out, for dooms-day he is secure; for he hopes he has a trick to reverse judgment.

XXXVII.

A PARTIAL MAN

Is the opposite extreme to a defamer, for the one speaks ill falsely, and the other well, and both slander the truth. He is one that is still weighing men in the scale of comparisons, and puts his affections in the one balance and that sways. His friend always shall do best, and you shall rarely hear good of his enemy. He considers first the man and then the thing, and restrains all merit to what they deserve of him. Commendations[96] he esteems not the debt of worth, but the requital of kindness; and if you ask his reason, shews his interest, and tells you how much he is beholden to that man. He is one that ties his judgment to the wheel of fortune, and they determine giddily both alike. He prefers England before other countries because he was born there, and Oxford before other universities, because he was brought up there, and the best scholar there is one of his own college, and the best scholar there is one of his friends. He is a great favourer of great persons, and his argument is still that which should be antecedent; as,—he is in high place, therefore virtuous;—he is preferred, therefore worthy. Never ask his opinion, for you shall hear but his faction, and he is indifferent in nothing but conscience. Men esteem him for this a zealous affectionate, but they mistake him many times, for he does it but to be esteemed so. Of all men he is worst to write an history, for he will praise a Sejanus or Tiberius, and for some petty respect of his all posterity shall be cozened.[97]

XXXVIII.

A TRUMPETER

Is the elephant with the great trunk, for he eats nothing but what comes through this way. His profession is not so worthy as to occasion insolence, and yet no man so much puft up. His face is as brazen as his trumpet, and (which is worse,) as a fidler's, from whom he differeth only in this, that his impudence is dearer. The sea of drink and much wind make a storm perpetually in his cheeks, and his look is like his noise, blustering and tempestuous. He was whilom the sound of war, but now of peace; yet as terrible as ever, for wheresoever he comes they are sure to pay for it. He is the common attendant of glittering folks, whether in the court or stage, where he is always the prologue's prologue.[63] He is somewhat in the nature of a hogshead,[98] shrillest when he is empty; when his belly is full he is quiet enough. No man proves life more to be a blast, or himself a bubble, and he is like a counterfeit bankrupt, thrives best when he is blown up.

XXXIX.

A VULGAR-SPIRITED MAN

Is one of the herd of the world. One that follows merely the common cry, and makes it louder by one. A man that loves none but who are publickly affected, and he will not be wiser than the rest of the town. That never owns a friend after an ill name, or some general imputation, though he knows it most unworthy. That opposes to reason,[99] "thus men say;" and "thus most do;" and "thus the world goes;" and thinks this enough to poise the other. That worships men in place, and those only; and thinks all a great man speaks oracles. Much taken with my lord's jest, and repeats you it all to a syllable. One that justifies nothing out of fashion, nor any opinion out of the applauded way. That thinks certainly all Spaniards and Jesuits very villains, and is still cursing the pope and Spinola. One that thinks the gravest cassock the best scholar; and the best cloaths the finest man. That is taken only with broad and obscene wit, and hisses any thing too deep for him. That cries, Chaucer for his money above all our English poets, because the voice has gone so, and he has read none. That is much ravished with such a nobleman's courtesy, and would venture his life for him, because he put off his hat. One that is foremost still to kiss the king's hand, and cries, "God bless his majesty!" loudest. That rails on all men condemned and out of favour, and the first that says "away with[100] the traitors!"—yet struck with much ruth at executions, and for pity to see a man die, could kill the hangman. That comes to London to see it, and the pretty things in it, and, the chief cause of his journey, the bears. That measures the happiness of the kingdom by the cheapness of corn, and conceives no harm of state, but ill trading. Within this compass too, come those that are too much wedged into the world, and have no lifting thoughts above those things; that call to thrive, to do well; and preferment only the grace of God. That aim all studies at this mark, and shew you poor scholars as an example to take heed by. That think the prison and want a judgment for some sin, and never like well hereafter of a jail-bird. That know no other content but wealth, bravery, and the town-pleasures; that think all else but idle speculation, and the philosophers madmen. In short, men that are carried away with all outwardnesses, shews, appearances, the stream, the people; for there is no man of worth but has a piece of singularity, and scorns something.[101]

XL.

A PLODDING STUDENT

Is a kind of alchymist or persecutor of nature, that would change the dull lead of his brain into finer metal, with success many times as unprosperous, or at least not quitting the cost, to wit, of his own oil and candles. He has a strange forced appetite to learning, and to atchieve it brings nothing but patience and a body. His study is not great but continual, and consists much in the sitting up till after midnight in a rug-gown and a night-cap, to the vanquishing perhaps of some six lines; yet what he has, he has perfect, for he reads it so long to understand it, till he gets it without book. He may with much industry make a breach into logick, and arrive at some ability in an argument; but for politer studies he dare not skirmish with them, and for poetry accounts it impregnable. His invention is no more than the finding out of his papers,[102] and his few gleanings there; and his disposition of them is as just as the bookbinders, a setting or glewing of them together. He is a great discomforter of young students, by telling them what travel it has cost him, and how often his brain turned at philosophy, and makes others fear studying as a cause of duncery. He is a man much given to apothegms, which serve him for wit, and seldom breaks any jest but which belongs to some Lacedemonian or Roman in Lycosthenes. He is like a dull carrier's horse, that will go a whole week together, but never out of a foot pace; and he that sets forth on the Saturday shall overtake him.[103]

XLI.

PAUL'S WALK[64]

Is the land's epitome, or you may call it the lesser isle of Great Britain. It is more than this, the whole world's map, which you may here discern in its perfectest motion, justling and turning. It is a heap of stones and men, with a vast confusion of languages;[104] and were the steeple not sanctified, nothing liker Babel. The noise in it is like that of bees, a strange humming or buzz mixed of walking tongues and feet: it is a kind of still roar or loud whisper. It is the great exchange of all discourse, and no business whatsoever but is here stirring and a-foot. It is the synod of all pates politick, jointed and laid together in most serious posture, and they are not half so busy at the parliament. It is the antick of tails to tails, and backs to backs, and for vizards you need go no farther than faces. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of all famous lies, which are here like the legends of popery, first coined and stamped in the church. All inventions are emptied here, and not few pockets. The best sign of a temple in it is, that it is the thieves sanctuary, which rob more safely in the crowd than a wilderness, whilst every searcher is a bush to hide them. It is the other expence of the day, after plays, tavern, and a bawdy-house; and men have still some oaths left to[105] swear here. It is the ear's brothel, and satisfies their lust and itch. The visitants are all men without exceptions, but the principal inhabitants and possessors are stale knights and captains[65] out of service; men of long rapiers and breeches, which after all turn merchants here and traffick for news. Some make it a preface to their dinner, and travel for a stomach; but thriftier men make it their ordinary, and board here very cheap.[66] Of all such places it is least haunted with hobgoblins, for if a ghost would walk more, he could not.

[106]

XLII.

A COOK.

The kitchen is his hell, and he the devil in it, where his meat and he fry together. His revenues are showered down from the fat of the land, and he interlards his own grease among to help the drippings. Cholerick he is not by nature so much as his art, and it is a shrewd temptation that the chopping-knife is so near. His weapons, ofter offensive, are a mess of hot broth and scalding water, and woe be to him that comes in his way. In the kitchen he will domineer and rule the roast in spight of his master, and curses in the very dialect of his calling. His labour is meer blustering and fury, and his speech like that of sailors in a storm, a thousand businesses at once; yet, in all this tumult, he does not love combustion, but will be the first man that shall go and quench it. He is never a good christian till a hissing pot of ale has slacked him, like water cast on a firebrand, and for[107] that time he is tame and dispossessed. His cunning is not small in architecture, for he builds strange fabricks in paste, towers and castles, which are offered to the assault of valiant teeth, and like Darius' palace in one banquet demolished. He is a pittiless murderer of innocents, and he mangles poor fowls with unheard-of tortures; and it is thought the martyrs persecutions were devised from hence: sure we are, St. Lawrence's gridiron came out of his kitchen. His best faculty is at the dresser, where he seems to have great skill in the tacticks, ranging his dishes in order military, and placing with great discretion in the fore-front meats more strong and hardy, and the more cold and cowardly in the rear; as quaking tarts and quivering custards, and such milk-sop dishes, which scape many times the fury of the encounter. But now the second course is gone up and he down in the cellar, where he drinks and sleeps till four o'clock[67] in the afternoon, and then returns again to his regiment.

[108]

XLIII.

A BOLD FORWARD MAN

Is a lusty fellow in a crowd, that is beholden more to his elbow than his legs, for he does not go, but thrusts well. He is a good shuffler in the world, wherein he is so oft putting forth, that at length he puts on. He can do some things, but dare do much more, and is like a desperate soldier, who will assault any thing where he is sure not to enter. He is not so well opinioned of himself, as industrious to make others, and thinks no vice so prejudicial as blushing. He is still citing for himself, that a candle should not be hid under a bushel; and for his part he will be sure not to hide his, though his candle be but a snuff or rush-candle. Those few good parts he has, he is no niggard in displaying, and is like some needy flaunting goldsmith, nothing in the inner room, but all on the cupboard. If he be a scholar, he has commonly stepped into[109] the pulpit before a degree, yet into that too before he deserved it. He never defers St. Mary's beyond his regency, and his next sermon is at Paul's cross,[68] [and that printed.] He loves publick things alive; and for any solemn entertainment he will find a mouth, find a speech who will. He is greedy of great acquaintance and many, and thinks it no small advancement to rise to be known. [He is one that has all the great names at court at his fingers ends, and their lodgings; and with a saucy, "my lord," will salute the best of them.] His talk at the table is like Benjamin's mess, five times to his part, and no argument shuts him out for a quarreller. Of all disgraces he endures not to be non-plussed, and had rather fly for sanctuary to[110] nonsense which few descry, than to nothing which all. His boldness is beholden to other men's modesty, which rescues him many times from a baffle; yet his face is good armour, and he is dashed out of any thing sooner than countenance. Grosser conceits are puzzled in him for a rare man; and wiser men though they know him [yet] take him [in] for their pleasure, or as they would do a sculler for being next at hand. Thus preferment at last stumbles on him, because he is still in the way. His companions that flouted him before, now envy him, when they see him come ready for scarlet, whilst themselves lye musty in their old clothes and colleges.

[111]

XLIV.

A BAKER.

No man verifies the proverb more, that it is an alms-deed to punish him; for his penalty is a dole,[69] and does the beggars as much good as their dinner. He abhors, therefore, works of charity, and thinks his bread cast away when it is given to the poor. He loves not justice neither, for the weigh-scale's sake, and hates the clerk of the market as his executioner; yet he finds mercy in his offences, and his basket only is sent to prison.[70] Marry a pillory is his deadly enemy, and he never hears well after.

[112]

XLV.

A PRETENDER TO LEARNING

Is one that would make all others more fools than himself, for though he know nothing, he would not have the would know so much. He conceits nothing in learning but the opinion, which he seeks to purchase without it, though he might with less labour cure his ignorance than hide it. He is indeed a kind of scholar-mountebank, and his art our delusion. He is tricked out in all the accoutrements of learning, and at the first encounter none passes better. He is oftener in his study than at his book, and you cannot pleasure him better than to deprehend him: yet he hears you not till the third knock, and then comes out very angry as interrupted. You find him in his slippers[71] and a pen in his ear, in which formality he was asleep. His table is spread[113] wide with some classick folio, which is as constant to it as the carpet, and hath laid open in the same page this half year. His candle is always a longer sitter up than himself, and the boast[72] of his window at midnight. He walks much alone in the posture of meditation, and has a book still before his face in the fields. His pocket is seldom without a Greek testament or Hebrew bible, which he opens only in the church, and that when some stander-by looks over. He has sentences for company, some scatterings of Seneca and Tacitus, which are good upon all occasions. If he reads any thing in the morning, it comes up all at dinner; and as long as that lasts, the discourse is his. He is a great plagiary of tavern wit, and comes to sermons only that he may talk of Austin. His parcels are the meer scrapings from company, yet he complains at parting what time he has lost. He is wondrously capricious to seem a judgment, and listens with[114] a sower attention to what he understands not. He talks much of Scaliger, and Casaubon, and the Jesuits, and prefers some unheard-of Dutch name before them all. He has verses to bring in upon these and these hints, and it shall go hard but he will wind in his opportunity. He is critical in a language he cannot conster, and speaks seldom under Arminius in divinity. His business and retirement and caller away is his study, and he protests no delight to it comparable. He is a great nomenclator of authors, which he has read in general in the catalogue, and in particular in the title, and goes seldom so far as the dedication. He never talks of any thing but learning, and learns all from talking. Three encounters with the same men pump him, and then he only puts in or gravely says nothing. He has taken pains to be an ass, though not to be a scholar, and is at length discovered and laughed at.

[115]

XLVI.

A HERALD

Is the spawn or indeed but the resultancy of nobility, and to the making of him went not a generation but a genealogy. His trade is honour, and he sells it and gives arms himself, though he be no gentleman. His bribes are like those of a corrupt judge, for they are the prices of blood. He seems very rich in discourse, for he tells you of whole fields of gold and silver, or, and argent, worth much in French but in English nothing. He is a great diver in the streams or issues of gentry, and not a by-channel or bastard escapes him; yea he does with them like some shameless queen, fathers more children on them than ever they begot. His traffick is a kind of pedlary-ware, scutchions, and pennons, and little daggers and lions, such as children esteem and gentlemen; but his penny-worths are rampant, for you may buy three[116] whole brawns cheaper than three boar's heads of him painted. He was sometimes the terrible coat of Mars, but is now for more merciful battles in the tilt-yard, where whosoever is victorious, the spoils are his. He is an art in England but in Wales nature, where they are born with heraldry in their mouths, and each name is a pedigree.

XLVII.

THE COMMON SINGING-MEN IN CATHEDRAL CHURCHES

Are a bad society, and yet a company of good fellows, that roar deep in the quire, deeper in the tavern. They are the eight parts of speech which go to the syntaxis of service, and are distinguished by their noises much like bells, for they make not a concert but a peal. Their pastime or recreation is prayers, their exercise drinking,[117] yet herein so religiously addicted that they serve God oftest when they are drunk. Their humanity is a leg to the residencer, their learning a chapter, for they learn it commonly before they read it; yet the old Hebrew names are little beholden to them, for they mis-call them worse than one another. Though they never expound the scripture, they handle it much, and pollute the gospel with two things, their conversation and their thumbs. Upon worky-days, they behave themselves at prayers as at their pots, for they swallow them down in an instant. Their gowns are laced commonly with streamings of ale, the superfluities of a cup or throat above measure. Their skill in melody makes them the better companions abroad, and their anthems abler to sing catches. Long lived for the most part they are not, especially the base, they overflow their bank so oft to drown the organs. Briefly, if they escape arresting, they die constantly in God's service; and to take their death with more patience, they have wine and cakes at their funeral, and now[118] they keep[73] the church a great deal better, and help to fill it with their bones as before with their noise.

XLVIII.

A SHOP-KEEPER.

His shop is his well stuft book, and himself the title-page of it, or index. He utters much to all men, though he sells but to a few, and intreats for his own necessities, by asking others what they lack. No man speaks more and no more, for his words are like his wares, twenty of one sort, and he goes over them alike to all commers. He is an arrogant commender of his own things; for whatsoever he shews you is the best in the town, though the worst in his shop. His conscience was a thing that would have laid upon his hands, and he was forced to put it off, and makes[119] great use of honesty to profess upon. He tells you lies by rote, and not minding, as the phrase to sell in, and the language he spent most of his years to learn. He never speaks so truely as when he says he would use you as his brother; for he would abuse his brother, and in his shop thinks it lawful. His religion is much in the nature of his customers, and indeed the pander to it: and by a mis-interpreted sense of scripture makes a gain of his godliness. He is your slave while you pay him ready money, but if he once befriend you, your tyrant, and you had better deserve his hate than his trust.

XLIX.

A BLUNT MAN

Is one whose wit is better pointed than his behaviour, and that coarse and impolished, not out of ignorance so much as humour. He is a great enemy to the fine gentleman,[120] and these things of complement, and hates ceremony in conversation, as the Puritan in religion. He distinguishes not betwixt fair and double dealing, and suspects all smoothness for the dress of knavery. He starts at the encounter of a salutation as an assault, and beseeches you in choler to forbear your courtesy. He loves not any thing in discourse that comes before the purpose, and is always suspicious of a preface. Himself falls rudely still on his matter without any circumstance, except he use an old proverb for an introduction. He swears old out-of-date innocent oaths, as, by the mass! by our lady! and such like, and though there be lords present, he cries, my masters! He is exceedingly in love with his humour, which makes him always profess and proclaim it, and you must take what he says patiently, because he is a plain man. His nature is his excuse still, and other men's tyrant; for he must speak his mind, and that is his worst, and craves your pardon most injuriously for not pardoning you. His jests[121] best become him, because they come from him rudely and unaffected; and he has the luck commonly to have them famous. He is one that will do more than he will speak, and yet speak more than he will hear; for though he love to touch others, he is touchy himself, and seldom to his own abuses replies but with his fists. He is as squeazy[74] of his commendations, as his courtesy, and his good word is like an eulogy in a satire. He is generally better favoured than he favours, as being commonly well expounded in his bitterness, and no man speaks treason more securely. He chides great men with most boldness, and is counted for it an honest fellow. He is grumbling much in the behalf of the commonwealth, and is in prison oft for it with credit. He is generally honest, but more generally thought so, and his downrightness credits him, as a man not well bended and crookned to the times. In conclusion, he is not easily bad, in whom[122] this quality is nature, but the counterfeit is most dangerous, since he is disguised in a humour, that professes not to disguise.

L.

A HANDSOME HOSTESS

Is the fairer commendation of an inn, above the fair sign, or fair lodgings. She is the loadstone that attracts men of iron, gallants and roarers, where they cleave sometimes long, and are not easily got off. Her lips are your welcome, and your entertainment her company, which is put into the reckoning too, and is the dearest parcel in it. No citizen's wife is demurer than she at the first greeting, nor draws in her mouth with a chaster simper; but you may be more familiar without distaste, and she does not startle at bawdry. She is the confusion of a pottle of sack more than would have been spent elsewhere,[123] and her little jugs are accepted to have her kiss excuse them. She may be an honest woman, but is not believed so in her parish, and no man is a greater infidel in it than her husband.

LI.

A CRITIC

Is one that has spelled over a great many books, and his observation is the orthography. He is the surgeon of old authors, and heals the wounds of dust and ignorance. He converses much in fragments and desunt multa's, and if he piece it up with two lines he is more proud of that book than the author. He runs over all sciences to peruse their syntaxis, and thinks all learning comprised in writing Latin. He tastes stiles as some discreeter palates do wine; and tells you which is genuine,[124] which sophisticate and bastard. His own phrase is a miscellany of old words, deceased long before the Cæsars, and entombed by Varro, and the modernest man he follows is Plautus. He writes omneis at length, and quidquid, and his gerund is most inconformable. He is a troublesome vexer of the dead, which after so long sparing must rise up to the judgment of his castigations. He is one that makes all books sell dearer, whilst he swells them into folios with his comments.[75]

LII.

A SERGEANT, OR CATCH-POLE

Is one of God's judgments; and which our roarers do only conceive terrible. He is the properest shape wherein they fancy Satan; for he is at most but an arrester, and hell a dungeon. He is the creditor's[125] hawk, wherewith they seize upon flying birds, and fetch them again in his tallons. He is the period of young gentlemen, or their full stop, for when he meets with them they can go no farther. His ambush is a shop-stall, or close lane, and his assault is cowardly at your back. He respites you in no place but a tavern, where he sells his minutes dearer than a clock-maker. The common way to run from him is through him, which is often attempted and atchieved,[76] [and no man is more beaten out of charity.] He is one makes the street more dangerous than the highways, and men go better provided in their walks than their journey. He is the first handsel of the young rapiers of the templers; and they are as proud of his repulse as an Hungarian of killing a Turk. He is a moveable prison, and his hands two manacles hard to be filed off. He is an occasioner of disloyal thoughts in the commonwealth, for he makes men hate the king's name worse than the devil's.

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LIII.

AN UNIVERSITY DUN

Is a gentleman's follower cheaply purchased, for his own money has hired him. He is an inferior creditor of some ten shillings downwards, contracted for horse-hire, or perchance for drink, too weak to be put in suit, and he arrests your modesty. He is now very expensive of his time, for he will wait upon your stairs a whole afternoon, and dance attendance with more patience than a gentleman-usher. He is a sore beleaguerer of chambers, and assaults them sometimes with furious knocks; yet finds strong resistance commonly, and is kept out. He is a great complainer of scholar's loytering, for he is sure never to find them within, and yet he is the chief cause many times that makes them study. He grumbles at the ingratitude of men that shun him for his kindness, but indeed it is his own fault, for he is too great an[127] upbraider. No man puts them more to their brain than he; and by shifting him off they learn to shift in the world. Some chuse their rooms on purpose to avoid his surprisals, and think the best commodity in them his prospect. He is like a rejected acquaintance, hunts those that care not for his company, and he knows it well enough, and yet will not keep away. The sole place to supple him is the buttery, where he takes grievous use upon your name,[77] and he is one much wrought with good beer and rhetorick. He is a man of most unfortunate voyages, and no gallant walks the streets to less purpose.

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LIV.

A STAYED MAN

Is a man: one that has taken order with himself, and sets a rule to those lawlesnesses within him: whose life is distinct and in method, and his actions, as it were, cast up before; not loosed into the world's vanities, but gathered up and contracted in his station: not scattered into many pieces of businesses, but that one course he takes, goes through with. A man firm and standing in his purposes, not heaved off with each wind and passion: that squares his expence to his coffers, and makes the total first, and then the items. One that thinks what he does, and does what he says, and foresees what he may do before he purposes. One whose "if I can" is more than another's assurance; and his doubtful tale before some men's protestations:—that is confident of nothing in futurity, yet his conjectures oft true prophecies:—that makes[129] a pause still betwixt his ear and belief, and is not too hasty to say after others. One whose tongue is strung up like a clock till the time, and then strikes, and says much when he talks little:—that can see the truth betwixt two wranglers, and sees them agree even in that they fall out upon:—that speaks no rebellion in a bravery, or talks big from the spirit of sack. A man cool and temperate in his passions, not easily betrayed by his choler:—that vies not oath with oath, nor heat with heat, but replies calmly to an angry man, and is too hard for him too:—that can come fairly off from captain's companies, and neither drink nor quarrel. One whom no ill hunting sends home discontented, and makes him swear at his dogs and family. One not hasty to pursue the new fashion, nor yet affectedly true to his old round breeches; but gravely handsome, and to his place, which suits him better than his taylor: active in the world without disquiet, and careful without misery; yet neither ingulphed in his pleasures, nor a seeker of business, but has his hour for[130] both. A man that seldom laughs violently, but his mirth is a cheerful look: of a composed and settled countenance, not set, nor much alterable with sadness or joy. He affects nothing so wholly, that he must be a miserable man when he loses it; but fore-thinks what will come hereafter, and spares fortune his thanks and curses. One that loves his credit, not this word reputation; yet can save both without a duel. Whose entertainments to greater men are respectful, not complementary; and to his friends plain, not rude. A good husband, father, master; that is, without doting, pampering, familiarity. A man well poised in all humours, in whom nature shewed most geometry, and he has not spoiled the work. A man of more wisdom than wittiness, and brain than fancy; and abler to any thing than to make verses.

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LV.

A MODEST MAN

Is a far finer man than he knows of, one that shews better to all men than himself, and so much the better to all men, as less to himself;[78] for no quality sets a man off like this, and commends him more against his will: and he can put up any injury sooner than this (as he calls it) your irony. You shall hear him confute his commenders, and giving reasons how much they are mistaken, and is angry almost if they do not believe him. Nothing threatens him so much as great expectation, which he thinks more prejudicial than your under-opinion, because it is easier to make that false, than this true. He is one that sneaks from a good action, as one that had pilfered, and dare not justify it;[132] and is more blushingly reprehended in this, than others in sin: that counts all publick declarings of himself, but so many penances before the people; and the more you applaud him, the more you abash him, and he recovers not his face a month after. One that is easy to like any thing of another man's, and thinks all he knows not of him better than that he knows. He excuses that to you, which another would impute; and if you pardon him, is satisfied. One that stands in no opinion because it is his own, but suspects it rather, because it is his own, and is confuted and thanks you. He sees nothing more willingly than his errors, and it is his error sometimes to be too soon persuaded. He is content to be auditor, where he only can speak, and content to go away, and think himself instructed. No man is so weak that he is ashamed to learn of, and is less ashamed to confess it; and he finds many times even in the dust, what others overlook and lose. Every man's presence is a kind of bridle to him, to stop the roving of his tongue and passions: and[133] even impudent men look for this reverence from him, and distaste that in him, which they suffer in themselves, as one in whom vice is ill-favoured, and shews more scurvily than another. A bawdy jest shall shame him more than a bastard another man, and he that got it shall censure him among the rest. And he is coward to nothing more than an ill tongue, and whosoever dare lye on him hath power over him; and if you take him by his look, he is guilty. The main ambition of his life is not to be discredited; and for other things, his desires are more limited than his fortunes, which he thinks preferment, though never so mean, and that he is to do something to deserve this. He is too tender to venture on great places, and would not hurt a dignity to help himself: If he do, it was the violence of his friends constrained him, how hardly soever he obtain it, he was harder persuaded to seek it.

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LVI.

A MEER EMPTY WIT

Is like one that spends on the stock without any revenues coming in, and will shortly be no wit at all; for learning is the fuel to the fire of wit, which, if it wants this feeding, eats out it self. A good conceit or two bates of such a man, and makes a sensible weakening in him; and his brain recovers it not a year after. The rest of him are bubbles and flashes, darted out on a sudden, which, if you take them while they are warm, may be laughed at; if they are cool, are nothing. He speaks best on the present apprehension, for meditation stupifies him, and the more he is in travel, the less he brings forth. His things come off then, as in a nauseateing stomach, where there is nothing to cast up, strains and convulsions, and some astonishing bombasts, which men only, till they understand, are scared with. A verse or some such work he[135] may sometimes get up to, but seldom above the stature of an epigram, and that with some relief out of Martial, which is the ordinary companion of his pocket, and he reads him as he were inspired. Such men are commonly the trifling things of the world, good to make merry the company, and whom only men have to do withal when they have nothing to do, and none are less their friends than who are most their company. Here they vent themselves over a cup some-what more lastingly; all their words go for jests, and all their jests for nothing. They are nimble in the fancy of some ridiculous thing, and reasonable good in the expression. Nothing stops a jest when it's coming, neither friends, nor danger, but it must out howsoever, though their blood come out after, and then they emphatically rail, and are emphatically beaten, and commonly are men reasonable familiar to this. Briefly they are such whose life is but to laugh and be laughed at; and only wits in jest and fools in earnest.

[136]

LVII.

A DRUNKARD

Is one that will be a man to-morrow morning, but is now what you will make him, for he is in the power of the next man, and if a friend the better. One that hath let go himself from the hold and stay of reason, and lies open to the mercy of all temptations. No lust but finds him disarmed and fenceless, and with the least assault enters. If any mischief escape him, it was not his fault, for he was laid as fair for it as he could. Every man sees him, as Cham saw his father the first of this sin, an uncovered man, and though his garment be on, uncovered; the secretest parts of his soul lying in the nakedest manner visible: all his passions come out now, all his vanities, and those shamefuller humours which discretion clothes. His body becomes at last like a miry way, where the spirits are beclogged and cannot pass: all his members are out of office, and his heels do[137] but trip up one another. He is a blind man with eyes, and a cripple with legs on. All the use he has of this vessel himself, is to hold thus much; for his drinking is but a scooping in of so many quarts, which are filled out into his body, and that filled out again into the room, which is commonly as drunk as he. Tobacco serves to air him after a washing, and is his only breath and breathing while. He is the greatest enemy to himself, and the next to his friend, and then most in the act of his kindness, for his kindness is but trying a mastery, who shall sink down first: and men come from him as a battle, wounded and bound up. Nothing takes a man off more from his credit, and business, and makes him more retchlesly[79] careless what becomes of all. Indeed he dares not enter on a serious thought, or if he do, it is such melancholy that it sends him to be drunk again.

[138]

LVIII.

A PRISON

Is the grave of the living,[80] where they are shut up from the world and their friends; and the worms that gnaw upon them their own thoughts and the jaylor. A house of meagre looks and ill smells, for lice, drink, and tobacco are the compound. Pluto's court was expressed from this fancy; and the persons are much about the same parity that is there. You may ask, as Menippus in Lucian, which is Nireus, which Thersites, which the beggar, which the knight;—for they are all suited in the same form of a kind of nasty poverty. Only to be out at elbows is in fashion here, and a great indecorum not to be thread-bare. Every man shews here like so many wracks upon the[139] sea, here the ribs of a thousand pound, here the relicks of so many mannors, a doublet without buttons; and 'tis a spectacle of more pity than executions are. The company one with the other is but a vying of complaints, and the causes they have to rail on fortune and fool themselves, and there is a great deal of good fellowship in this. They are commonly, next their creditors, most bitter against the lawyers, as men that have had a great stroke in assisting them hither. Mirth here is stupidity or hard-heartedness, yet they feign it sometimes to slip melancholy, and keep off themselves from themselves, and the torment of thinking what they have been. Men huddle up their life here as a thing of no use, and wear it out like an old suit, the faster the better; and he that deceives the time best, best spends it. It is the place where new comers are most welcomed, and, next them, ill news, as that which extends their fellowship in misery, and leaves few to insult:—and they breath their discontents more securely here, and have their tongues at more liberty than[140] abroad. Men see here much sin and much calamity; and where the last does not mortify, the other hardens; as those that are worse here, are desperately worse, and those from whom the horror of sin is taken off and the punishment familiar: and commonly a hard thought passes on all that come from this school; which though it teach much wisdom, it is too late, and with danger: and it is better be a fool than come here to learn it.

LIX.

A SERVING MAN

Is one of the makings up of a gentleman as well as his clothes, and somewhat in the same nature, for he is cast behind his master as fashionably as his sword and cloak are, and he is but in querpo[81] without him. His[141] properness[82] qualifies him, and of that a good leg; for his head he has little use but to keep it bare. A good dull wit best suits with him to comprehend common sense and a trencher; for any greater store of brain it makes him but tumultuous, and seldom thrives with him. He follows his master's steps, as well in conditions as the street; if he wench or drink, he comes him in an under kind, and thinks it a part of his duty to be like him. He is indeed wholly his master's; of his faction,—of his cut,—of his pleasures:—he is handsome for his credit, and drunk for his credit, and if he have power in the cellar, commands the parish. He is one that keeps the best company, and[142] is none of it; for he knows all the gentlemen his master knows, and picks from thence some hawking and horse-race terms,[83] which he swaggers with in the ale-house, where he is only called master. His mirth is bawdy jests with the wenches, and, behind the door, bawdy earnest. The best work he does is his marrying, for it makes an honest woman, and if he follows in it his master's direction, it is commonly the best service he does him.

LX.

AN INSOLENT MAN

Is a fellow newly great and newly proud; one that hath put himself into another face upon his preferment, for his own was not bred to it. One whom fortune hath shot up to some office or authority, and he shoots up[143] his neck to his fortune, and will not bate you an inch of either. His very countenance and gesture bespeak how much he is, and if you understand him not, he tells you, and concludes every period with his place, which you must and shall know. He is one that looks on all men as if he were angry, but especially on those of his acquaintance, whom he beats off with a surlier distance, as men apt to mistake him, because they have known him; and for this cause he knows not you 'till you have told him your name, which he thinks he has heard, but forgot, and with much ado seems to recover. If you have any thing to use him in, you are his vassal for that time, and must give him the patience of any injury, which he does only to shew what he may do. He snaps you up bitterly, because he will be offended, and tells you, you are sawcy and troublesome, and sometimes takes your money in this language. His very courtesies are intolerable, they are done with such an arrogance and imputation; and he is the only man you may hate after a good turn, and not be ungrateful; and[144] men reckon it among their calamities to be beholden unto him. No vice draws with it a more general hostility, and makes men readier to search into his faults, and of them, his beginning; and no tale so unlikely but is willingly heard of him and believed. And commonly such men are of no merit at all, but make out in pride what they want in worth, and fence themselves with a stately kind of behaviour from that contempt which would pursue them. They are men whose preferment does us a great deal of wrong, and when they are down, we may laugh at them without breach of good-nature.

LXI.

ACQUAINTANCE

Is the first draught of a friend, whom we must lay down oft thus, as the foul copy, before we can write him perfect and true: for from hence, as from a probation, men take a degree in our respect, till at last they[145] wholly possess us: for acquaintance is the hoard, and friendship the pair chosen out of it; by which at last we begin to impropriate and inclose to ourselves what before lay in common with others. And commonly where it grows not up to this, it falls as low as may be; and no poorer relation than old acquaintance, of whom we only ask how they do for fashion's sake, and care not. The ordinary use of acquaintance is but somewhat a more boldness of society, a sharing of talk, news, drink, mirth together; but sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing nearer our heart, and to be delivered with it. Nothing easier than to create acquaintance, the mere being in company once does it; whereas friendship, like children, is ingendered by a more inward mixture, and coupling together; when we are acquainted not with their virtues only, but their faults, their passions, their fears, their shame,—and are bold on both sides to make their discovery. And as it is in the love of the body, which is then at the height and full when it has power and admittance into the[146] hidden and worst parts of it; so it is in friendship with the mind, when those verenda of the soul, and those things which we dare not shew the world, are bare and detected one to another. Some men are familiar with all, and those commonly friends to none; for friendship is a sullener thing, is a contractor and taker up of our affections to some few, and suffers them not loosely to be scattered on all men. The poorest tie of acquaintance is that of place and country, which are shifted as the place, and missed but while the fancy of that continues. These are only then gladdest of other, when they meet in some foreign region, where the encompassing of strangers unites them closer, till at last they get new, and throw off one another. Men of parts and eminency, as their acquaintance is more sought for, so they are generally more staunch of it, not out of pride only, but fear to let too many in too near them: for it is with men as with pictures, the best show better afar off and at distance, and the closer you come to them the coarser they are. The best judgment of[147] a man is taken from his acquaintance, for friends and enemies are both partial; whereas these see him truest because calmest, and are no way so engaged to lie for him. And men that grow strange after acquaintance, seldom piece together again, as those that have tasted meat and dislike it, out of a mutual experience disrelishing one another.

LXII.

A MEER COMPLIMENTAL MAN

Is one to be held off still at the same distance you are now; for you shall have him but thus, and if you enter on him farther you lose him. Methinks Virgil well expresses him in those well-behaved ghosts that Æneas met with, that were friends to talk with, and men to look on, but if he[148] grasped them, but air.[84] He is one that lies kindly to you, and for good fashion's sake, and tis discourtesy in you to believe him. His words are so many fine phrases set together, which serve equally for all men, and are equally to no purpose. Each fresh encounter with a man puts him to the same part again, and he goes over to you what he said to him was last with him: he kisses your hands as he kissed his before, and is your servant to be commanded, but you shall intreat of him nothing. His proffers are universal and general, with exceptions against all particulars. He will do any thing for you, but if you urge him to this, he cannot, or to that, he is engaged; but he will do any thing. Promises he accounts but a kind of mannerly words, and in the expectation of your manners not to exact them: if you do, he wonders at your ill breeding, that cannot distinguish betwixt[149] what is spoken and what is meant. No man gives better satisfaction at the first, and comes off more with the elogy of a kind gentleman, till you know him better, and then you know him for nothing. And commonly those most rail at him, that have before most commended him. The best is, he cozens you in a fair manner, and abuses you with great respect.

LXIII.

A POOR FIDDLER

Is a man and a fiddle out of case, and he in worse case than his fiddle. One that rubs two sticks together (as the Indians strike fire), and rubs a poor living out of it; partly from this, and partly from your charity, which is more in the hearing than giving him, for he sells nothing dearer than to be gone. He is just so many strings above a beggar, though he have but two; and yet he begs too, only not in the downright[150] 'for God's sake,' but with a shrugging 'God bless you,' and his face is more pined than the blind man's. Hunger is the greatest pain he takes, except a broken head sometimes, and the labouring John Dory.[85] Otherwise his life is so many fits of mirth, and tis some mirth to see him. A good feast shall draw him five miles by the nose, and you shall track him again by the scent. His other pilgrimages are fairs and good houses, where his devotion is great to the Christmas; and no man loves good times better. He is in league with the tapsters for the worshipful of the inn, whom, he torments next morning with his art, and has their names more perfect than their men. A new song is better to him than a new jacket, especially if bawdy, which he calls merry; and hates naturally the puritan, as an enemy to this mirth. A country wedding and Whitson-ale are the two main places he domineers in, where he goes for a musician, and overlooks the bag-pipe. The rest of him is drunk, and in the stocks.

[151]

LXIV.

A MEDDLING MAN

Is one that has nothing to do with his business, and yet no man busier than he, and his business is most in his face. He is one thrusts himself violently into all employments, unsent for, unfeed, and many times unthanked; and his part in it is only an eager bustling, that rather keeps ado than does any thing. He will take you aside, and question you of your affair, and listen with both ears, and look earnestly, and then it is nothing so much yours as his. He snatches what you are doing out of your hands, and cries "give it me," and does it worse, and lays an engagement upon you too, and you must thank him for his pains. He lays you down an hundred wild plots, all impossible things, which you must be ruled by perforce, and he delivers them with a serious and counselling forehead; and there is a great deal more wisdom in this forehead[152] than his head. He will woo for you, solicit for you, and woo you to suffer him; and scarce any thing done, wherein his letter, or his journey, or at least himself is not seen; if he have no task in it else, he will rail yet on some side, and is often beaten when he need not. Such men never thoroughly weigh any business, but are forward only to shew their zeal, when many times this forwardness spoils it, and then they cry they have done what they can, that is, as much hurt. Wise men still deprecate these men's kindnesses, and are beholden to them rather to let them alone; as being one trouble more in all business, and which a man shall be hardest rid of.[153]

LXV.

A GOOD OLD MAN

Is the best antiquity, and which we may with least vanity admire. One whom time hath been thus long a working, and like winter fruit, ripened when others are shaken down. He hath taken out as many lessons of the world as days, and learnt the best thing in it; the vanity of it. He looks over his former life as a danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again. His lust was long broken before his body, yet he is glad this temptation is broke too, and that he is fortified from it by this weakness. The next door of death sads him not, but he expects it calmly as his turn in nature; and fears more his recoiling back to childishness than dust. All men look on him as a common father, and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. His very presence and face puts vice out of countenance, and makes it an indecorum in a[154] vicious man. He practises his experience on youth without the harshness of reproof, and in his counsel his good company. He has some old stories still of his own seeing to confirm what he says, and makes them better in the telling; yet is not troublesome neither with the same tale again, but remembers with them how oft he has told them. His old sayings and morals seem proper to his beard; and the poetry of Cato does well out of his mouth, and he speaks it as if he were the author. He is not apt to put the boy on a younger man, nor the fool on a boy, but can distinguish gravity from a sour look; and the less testy he is, the more regarded. You must pardon him if he like his own times better than these, because those things are follies to him now that were wisdom then; yet he makes us of that opinion too when we see him, and conjecture those times by so good a relick. He is a man capable of a dearness with the youngest men, yet he not youthfuller for them, but they older for him; and no man credits more his acquaintance. He goes away at[155] last too soon whensoever, with all men's sorrow but his own; and his memory is fresh, when it is twice as old.

LXVI.

A FLATTERER

Is the picture of a friend, and as pictures flatter many times, so he oft shews fairer than the true substance: his look, conversation, company, and all the outwardness of friendship more pleasing by odds, for a true friend dare take the liberty to be sometimes offensive, whereas he is a great deal more cowardly, and will not let the least hold go, for fear of losing you. Your meer sour look affrights him, and makes him doubt his casheering. And this is one sure mark of him, that he is never first angry, but ready though upon his own wrong to make satisfaction. Therefore he is never yoked with a poor man, or any that stands[156] on the lower ground, but whose fortunes may tempt his pains to deceive him. Him he learns first, and learns well, and grows perfecter in his humours than himself, and by this door enters upon his soul, of which he is able at last to take the very print and mark, and fashion his own by it, like a false key to open all your secrets. All his affections jump[86] even with your's; he is before-hand with your thoughts, and able to suggest them unto you. He will commend to you first what he knows you like, and has always some absurd story or other of your enemy, and then wonders how your two opinions should jump in that man. He will ask your counsel sometimes as a man of deep judgment, and has a secret of purpose to disclose to you, and whatsoever you say, is persuaded. He listens to your words[157] with great attention, and sometimes will object that you may confute him, and then protests he never heard so much before. A piece of wit bursts him with an overflowing laughter, and he remembers it for you to all companies, and laughs again in the telling. He is one never chides you but for your vertues, as, you are too good, too honest, too religious, when his chiding may seem but the earnester commendation, and yet would fain chide you out of them too; for your vice is the thing he has use of, and wherein you may best use him; and he is never more active than in the worst diligences. Thus, at last, he possesses you from yourself, and then expects but his hire to betray you: and it is a happiness not to discover him; for as long as you are happy, you shall not.

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LXVII.

A HIGH-SPIRITED MAN

Is one that looks like a proud man, but is not: you may forgive him his looks for his worth's sake, for they are only too proud to be base. One whom no rate can buy off from the least piece of his freedom, and make him digest an unworthy thought an hour. He cannot crouch to a great man to possess him, nor fall low to the earth to rebound never so high again. He stands taller on his own bottom, than others on the advantage ground of fortune, as having solidly that honour, of which title is but the pomp. He does homage to no man for his great stile's sake, but is strictly just in the exaction of respect again, and will not bate you a complement. He is more sensible of a neglect than an undoing, and scorns no man so much as his surly threatener. A man quickly fired, and quickly laid down with satisfaction, but remits any injury sooner than words: only to himself he is irreconcileable,[159] whom he never forgives a disgrace, but is still stabbing himself with the thought of it, and no disease that he dies of sooner. He is one had rather perish than be beholden for his life, and strives more to be quit with his friend than his enemy. Fortune may kill him but not deject him, nor make him fall into an humbler key than before, but he is now loftier than ever in his own defence; you shall hear him talk still after thousands, and he becomes it better than those that have it. One that is above the world and its drudgery, and cannot pull down his thoughts to the pelting businesses of life. He would sooner accept the gallows than a mean trade, or any thing that might disparage the height of man in him, and yet thinks no death comparably base to hanging neither. One that will do nothing upon command, though he would do it otherwise; and if ever he do evil, it is when he is dared to it. He is one that if fortune equal his worth puts a luster in all preferment; but if otherwise he be too much crossed, turns desperately melancholy, and scorns mankind.[160]

LXVIII.

A MEER GULL CITIZEN

Is one much about the same model and pitch of brain that the clown is, only of somewhat a more polite and finical ignorance, and as sillily scorns him as he is sillily admired by him. The quality of the city hath afforded him some better dress of clothes and language, which he uses to the best advantage, and is so much the more ridiculous. His chief education is the visits of his shop, where if courtiers and fine ladies resort, he is infected with so much more eloquence, and if he catch one word extraordinary, wears it for ever. You shall hear him mince a complement sometimes that was never made for him; and no man pays dearer for good words,—for he is oft paid with them. He is suited rather fine than in the fashion, and has still something to distinguish him from a gentleman, though his doublet cost more; especially on Sundays,[161] bridegroom-like, where he carries the state of a very solemn man, and keeps his pew as his shop; and it is a great part of his devotion to feast the minister. But his chiefest guest is a customer, which is the greatest relation he acknowledges, especially if you be an honest gentleman, that is trust him to cozen you enough. His friendships are a kind of gossipping friendships, and those commonly within the circle of his trade, wherein he is careful principally to avoid two things, that is poor men and suretiships. He is a man will spend his six-pence with a great deal of imputation,[87] and no man makes more of a pint of wine than he. He is one bears a pretty kind of foolish love to scholars, and to Cambridge especially for Sturbridge[88] fair's sake; and of these all are[162] truants to him that are not preachers, and of these the loudest the best; and he is much ravished with the noise of a rolling tongue. He loves to hear discourses out of his element, and the less he understands the better pleased, which he expresses in a smile and some fond protestation. One that does nothing without his chuck[89], that is his wife, with whom he is billing still in conspiracy, and the wantoner she is, the more power she has over him; and she never stoops so low after him, but is the only woman goes better of a widow than a maid. In the education of his child no man fearfuller, and the danger he fears is a harsh school-master, to whom he is alledging still the weakness of the boy, and pays a fine extraordinary for his mercy. The[163] first whipping rids him to the university, and from thence rids him again for fear of starving, and the best he makes of him is some gull in plush. He is one loves to hear the famous acts of citizens, whereof the gilding of the cross[90] he counts the glory of this age, and the four[91] prentices of London[164] above all the nine[92] worthies. He intitles himself to all the merits of his company, whether schools, hospitals, or exhibitions, in which he is joint benefactor, though four hundred years ago, and upbraids them far more than those that gave them: yet with[165] all this folly he has wit enough to get wealth, and in that a sufficienter man than he that is wiser.

LXIX.

A LASCIVIOUS MAN

Is the servant he says of many mistresses, but all are but his lust, to which only he is faithful, and none besides, and spends his best blood and spirits in the service. His soul is the bawd to his body, and those that assist him in this nature the nearest to it. No man abuses more the name of love, or those whom he applies this name to; for his love is like his stomach to feed on what he loves, and the end of it to surfeit and loath, till a fresh appetite rekindle him; and it kindles on any sooner than who deserve best of him. There is a great deal of malignity in this vice, for it loves still to spoil the best things, and a virgin sometimes rather than[166] beauty, because the undoing here is greater, and consequently his glory. No man laughs more at his sin than he, or is so extremely tickled with the remembrance of it; and he is more violence to a modest ear than to her he defloured. A bawdy jest enters deep into him, and whatsoever you speak he will draw to baudry, and his wit is never so good as here. His unchastest part is his tongue, for that commits always what he must act seldomer; and that commits with all which he acts with few; for he is his own worst reporter, and men believe as bad of him, and yet do not believe him. Nothing harder to his persuasion than a chaste man, no eunuch; and makes a scoffing miracle at it, if you tell him of a maid. And from this mistrust it is that such men fear marriage, or at least marry such as are of bodies to be trusted, to whom only they sell that lust which they buy of others, and make their wife a revenue to their mistress. They are men not easily reformed, because they are so little ill-persuaded of their illness, and have such pleas from man and nature. Besides it is a[167] jeering and flouting vice, and apt to put jests on the reprover. The pox only converts them, and that only when it kills them.

LXX.

A RASH MAN

Is a man too quick for himself; one whose actions put a leg still before his judgement, and out-run it. Every hot fancy or passion is the signal that sets him forward, and his reason comes still in the rear. One that has brain enough, but not patience to digest a business, and stay the leisure of a second thought. All deliberation is to him a kind of sloth and freezing of action, and it shall burn him rather than take cold. He is always resolved at first thinking, and the ground he goes upon is, hap what may. Thus he enters not, but throws himself violently upon all things, and for the most part is as[168] violently upon all off again; and as an obstinate "I will" was the preface to his undertaking, so his conclusion is commonly "I would I had not;" for such men seldom do any thing that they are not forced to take in pieces again, and are so much farther off from doing it, as they have done already. His friends are with him as his physician, sought to only in his sickness and extremity, and to help him out of that mire he has plunged himself into; for in the suddenness of his passions he would hear nothing, and now his ill success has allayed him he hears too late. He is a man still swayed with the first reports, and no man more in the power of a pick-thank than he. He is one will fight first, and then expostulate, condemn first, and then examine. He loses his friend in a fit of quarrelling, and in a fit of kindness undoes himself; and then curses the occasion drew this mischief upon him, and cries, God mercy! for it, and curses again. His repentance is meerly a rage against himself, and he does something in itself to[169] be repented again. He is a man whom fortune must go against much to make him happy, for had he been suffered his own way, he had been undone.

LXXI.

AN AFFECTED MAN

Is an extraordinary man in ordinary things. One that would go a strain beyond himself, and is taken in it. A man that overdoes all things with great solemnity of circumstance; and whereas with more negligence he might pass better, makes himself with a great deal of endeavour ridiculous. The fancy of some odd quaintnesses have put him clean beside his nature; he cannot be that he would, and hath lost what he was. He is one must be point-blank in every trifle, as if his credit and opinion hung upon it; the very space of his arms in an embrace studied before[170] and premeditated, and the figure of his countenance of a fortnight's contriving; he will not curse you without-book and extempore, but in some choice way, and perhaps as some great man curses. Every action of his cries,—"Do ye mark me?" and men do mark him how absurd he is: for affectation is the most betraying humour, and nothing that puzzles a man less to find out than this. All the actions of his life are like so many things bodged in without any natural cadence or connection at all. You shall track him all through like a schoolboy's theme, one piece from one author and this from another, and join all in this general, that they are none of his own. You shall observe his mouth not made for that tone, nor his face for that simper; and it is his luck that his finest things most misbecome him. If he affect the gentleman as the humour most commonly lies that way, not the least punctilio of a fine man, but he is strict in to a hair, even to their very negligences, which he cons as rules. He will not carry a knife with him to wound[171] reputation, and pay double a reckoning, rather than ignobly question it: and he is full of this—ignobly—and nobly—and genteely;—and this meer fear to trespass against the genteel way puts him out most of all. It is a humour runs through many things besides, but is an ill-favoured ostentation in all, and thrives not:—and the best use of such men is, they are good parts in a play.

LXXI.

A PROFANE MAN

Is one that denies God as far as the law gives him leave; that is, only does not say so in downright terms, for so far he may go. A man that does the greatest sins calmly, and as the ordinary actions of life, and as calmly discourses of it again. He will tell you his business is to break such a commandment, and the breaking of the commandment shall tempt him to it. His words are but so many vomitings cast up to the loathsomeness[172] of the hearers, only those of his company[93] loath it not. He will take upon him with oaths to pelt some tenderer man out of his company, and makes good sport at his conquest over the puritan fool. The scripture supplies him for jests, and he reads it on purpose to be thus merry: he will prove you his sin out of the bible, and then ask if you will not take that authority. He never sees the church but of purpose to sleep in it, or when some silly man preaches, with whom he means to make sport, and is most jocund in the church. One that nick-names clergymen with all the terms of reproach, as "rat, black-coat" and the like; which he will be sure to keep up, and never calls them by other: that sings psalms when he is drunk, and cries "God mercy" in mockery, for he must do it. He is one seems to dare God in all his actions, but indeed would out-dare the opinion of him, which would else turn him desperate; for atheism is the refuge of such sinners, whose repentance would be only to hang themselves.

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LXXIII.

A COWARD

Is the man that is commonly most fierce against the coward, and labouring to take off this suspicion from himself; for the opinion of valour is a good protection to those that dare not use it. No man is valianter than he is in civil company, and where he thinks no danger may come on it, and is the readiest man to fall upon a drawer and those that must not strike again: wonderful exceptious and cholerick where he sees men are loth to give him occasion, and you cannot pacify him better than by quarrelling with him. The hotter you grow, the more temperate man is he; he protests he always honoured you, and the more you rail upon him, the more he honours you, and you threaten him at last into a very honest quiet man. The sight of a sword wounds him more sensibly than the stroke, for before that come he is dead already.[174] Every man is his master that dare beat him, and every man dares that knows him. And he that dare do this is the only man can do much with him; for his friend he cares not for, as a man that carries no such terror as his enemy, which for this cause only is more potent with him of the two: and men fall out with him of purpose to get courtesies from him, and be bribed again to a reconcilement. A man in whom no secret can be bound up, for the apprehension of each danger loosens him, and makes him bewray both the room and it. He is a christian meerly for fear of hell-fire; and if any religion could fright him more, would be of that.

LXXIV.

A SORDID RICH MAN

Is a beggar of a fair estate, of whose wealth we may say as of other men's unthriftiness, that it has brought him to[175] this: when he had nothing he lived in another kind of fashion. He is a man whom men hate in his own behalf for using himself thus, and yet, being upon himself, it is but justice, for he deserves it. Every accession of a fresh heap bates him so much of his allowance, and brings him a degree nearer starving. His body had been long since desperate, but for the reparation of other men's tables, where he hoards meats in his belly for a month, to maintain him in hunger so long. His clothes were never young in our memory; you might make long epochas from them, and put them into the almanack with the dear year[94] and the great frost,[95] and[176] he is known by them longer than his face. He is one never gave alms in his life, and yet is as charitable to his neighbour as himself. He will redeem a penny with his reputation, and lose all his friends to boot; and his reason is, he will not be undone. He never pays any thing but with strictness of law, for fear of which only he steals not. He loves to pay short a shilling or two in a great sum, and is glad to gain that when he can no more. He never sees friend but in a journey to save the charges of an inn, and then only is not sick; and his friends never see him but to abuse him. He is a fellow indeed of a kind of frantick thrift, and one of the strangest things that wealth can work.

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LXXV.

A MEER GREAT MAN

Is so much heraldry without honour, himself less real than his title. His virtue is, that he was his father's son, and all the expectation of him to beget another. A man that lives meerly to preserve another's memory, and let us know who died so many years ago. One of just as much use as his images, only he differs in this, that he can speak himself, and save the fellow of Westminster[96] a labour: and he remembers nothing better than what was out of his life. His grandfathers and their acts are his discourse, and he tells them with more glory than they did them; and it is well they did enough, or else he had wanted matter. His other studies are his sports and those vices that are fit for great men. Every vanity of his has his officer, and is a serious employment for his servants. He talks loud, and baudily,[178] and scurvily as a part of state, and they hear him with reverence. All good qualities are below him, and especially learning, except some parcels of the chronicle and the writing of his name, which he learns to write not to be read. He is meerly of his servants' faction, and their instrument for their friends and enemies, and is always least thanked for his own courtesies. They that fool him most do most with him, and he little thinks how many laugh at him bare-head. No man is kept in ignorance more of himself and men, for he hears nought but flattery; and what is fit to be spoken, truth with so much preface that it loses itself. Thus he lives till his tomb be made ready, and is then a grave statue to posterity.

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LXXVI.

A POOR MAN

Is the most impotent man, though neither blind nor lame, as wanting the more necessary limbs of life, without which limbs are a burden. A man unfenced and unsheltered from the gusts of the world, which blow all in upon him, like an unroofed house; and the bitterest thing he suffers is his neighbours. All men put on to him a kind of churlisher fashion, and even more plausible natures are churlish to him, as who are nothing advantaged by his opinion. Whom men fall out with before-hand to prevent friendship, and his friends too to prevent engagements, or if they own him 'tis in private and a by-room, and on condition not to know them before company. All vice put together is not half so scandalous, nor sets off our acquaintance farther; and even those that are not friends for ends do not love any dearness with such[180] men. The least courtesies are upbraided to him, and himself thanked for none, but his best services suspected as handsome sharking and tricks to get money. And we shall observe it in knaves themselves, that your beggarliest knaves are the greatest, or thought so at least, for those that have wit to thrive by it have art not to seem so. Now a poor man has not vizard enough to mask his vices, nor ornament enough to set forth his virtues, but both are naked and unhandsome; and though no man is necessitated to more ill, yet no man's ill is less excused, but it is thought a kind of impudence in him to be vicious, and a presumption above his fortune. His good parts lye dead upon his hands, for want of matter to employ them, and at the best are not commended but pitied, as virtues ill placed, and we may say of him, "Tis an honest man, but tis pity;" and yet those that call him so will trust a knave before him. He is a man that has the truest speculation of the world, because all men shew to him in their plainest and worst, as a man they have no plot on, by[181] appearing good to; whereas rich men are entertained with a more holy-day behaviour, and see only the best we can dissemble. He is the only he that tries the true strength of wisdom, what it can do of itself without the help of fortune; that with a great deal of virtue conquers extremities, and with a great deal more his own impatience, and obtains of himself not to hate men.

LXXVII.

AN ORDINARY HONEST MAN

Is one whom it concerns to be called honest, for if he were not this, he were nothing: and yet he is not this neither, but a good dull vicious fellow, that complies well with the deboshments[97] of the time, and[182] is fit for it. One that has no good part in him to offend his company, or make him to be suspected a proud fellow; but is sociably a dunce, and sociably a drinker. That does it fair and above-board without legermain, and neither sharks[98] for a cup or a reckoning: that is kind over his beer, and protests he loves you, and begins to you again, and loves you again. One that quarrels with no man, but for not pledging him, but takes all absurdities and commits as many, and is no tell-tale next morning, though he remember it. One that will fight for his friend if he hear him abused, and his friend commonly is he that is most likely, and he lifts up many a jug in his defence. He rails against none but censurers, against whom he thinks he rails lawfully, and censurers are all those that are better than himself. These good properties qualify him for honesty enough, and raise him high in the ale-house commendation, who, if he had any other good[183] quality, would be named by that. But now for refuge he is an honest man, and hereafter a sot: only those that commend him think him not so, and those that commend him are honest fellows.

LXXVIII.

A SUSPICIOUS OR JEALOUS MAN

Is one that watches himself a mischief, and keeps a lear eye still, for fear it should escape him. A man that sees a great deal more in every thing than is to be seen, and yet he thinks he sees nothing: his own eye stands in his light. He is a fellow commonly guilty of some weaknesses, which he might conceal if he were careless:—now his over-diligence to hide them makes men pry the more. Howsoever he imagines you have found him, and it shall go hard but you must abuse him whether you will or no. Not a word can be spoke, but nips him somewhere;[184] not a jest thrown out, but he will make it hit him. You shall have him go fretting out of company, with some twenty quarrels to every man, stung and galled, and no man knows less the occasion than they that have given it. To laugh before him is a dangerous matter, for it cannot be at any thing but at him, and to whisper in his company plain conspiracy. He bids you speak out, and he will answer you, when you thought not of him. He expostulates with you in passion, why you should abuse him, and explains to your ignorance wherein, and gives you very good reason at last to laugh at him hereafter. He is one still accusing others when they are not guilty, and defending himself when he is not accused: and no man is undone more with apologies, wherein he is so elaborately excessive, that none will believe him; and he is never thought worse of, than when he has given satisfaction. Such men can never have friends, because they cannot trust so far; and this humour hath this infection with it, it makes all men to them suspicious. In conclusion, they are men[185] always in offence and vexation with themselves and their neighbours, wronging others in thinking they would wrong them, and themselves most of all in thinking they deserve it.

END OF THE CHARACTERS.[186]

No. I.

SOME ACCOUNT OF BISHOP EARLE[AX].

All the biographical writers who have taken notice of John Earle agree in stating, that he was born in the city of York, although not one of them has given the exact date of his birth, or any intelligence relative to his family, or the rank in life of[187] his parents. It is, however, most probable, that they were persons of respectability and fortune, as he was sent, at an early age, to Oxford, and entered as a commoner of Christ-church college[AY], where his conduct was so exemplary, his attention to his studies so marked, and his general deportment and manners so pleasing, that he became a successful candidate at Merton-college, and was admitted a probationary fellow on that foundation in 1620, being then, according to Wood[AZ], about nineteen years of age. He took the degree of Master of Arts, July 10, 1624, and in 1631 served the office of Proctor of the university, about which time he was also appointed chaplain to Philip Earl of Pembroke, then Chancellor of Oxford.

During the earlier part of our author's life, he appears to have possessed considerable[188] reputation as a poet, and to have been as remarkable for the pleasantry of his conversation, as for his learning, virtues, and piety. Wood[BA] tells us that "his younger years were adorned with oratory, poetry, and witty fancies, his elder with quaint preaching and subtile disputes." The only specimens of his poetry which can be recovered at this time, are three funeral tributes, which will be found in the Appendix, and of which two are now printed, I believe, for the first time.

Soon after his appointment to be Lord Pembroke's chaplain, he was presented by that nobleman to the rectory of Bishopstone, in Wiltshire; nor was this the only advantage he reaped from the friendship of his patron, who being at that time Lord Chamberlain of the King's household[BB], was entitled to a lodging in the court for his chaplain, a circumstance which in all probability introduced Mr. Earle to the notice of the King, who promoted him to be[189] chaplain and tutor to Prince Charles, when Dr. Duppa, who had previously discharged that important trust, was raised to the bishopric of Salisbury.

In 1642 Earle took his degree of Doctor in Divinity, and in the year following was actually elected one of the Assembly of Divines appointed by the parliament to new model the church. This office, although it may be considered a proof of the high opinion even those of different sentiments from himself entertained of his character and merit, he refused to accept, when he saw that there was no probability of assisting the cause of religion, or of restraining the violence of a misguided faction, by an interference among those who were "declared and avowed enemies to the doctrine and discipline of the Church of England; some of them infamous in their lives and conversations, and most of them of very mean parts in learning, if not of scandalous ignorance[BC]."[190]

On the 10th of February, 1643, Dr. Earle was elected chancellor of the cathedral of Salisbury[BD], of which situation, as well as his living of Bishopstone, he was shortly after deprived by the ill success of the royal cause[BE].

When the defeat of the King's forces at Worcester compelled Charles the Second to fly his country, Earle attached himself to the fallen fortunes of his sovereign, and was among the first of those who saluted him upon his arrival at Rouen in Normandy, where he was made clerk of the closet, and King's chaplain[BF]. Nor was his affection to the family of the Stuarts, and his devotion[191] to their cause evinced by personal services only, as we find by a letter from Lord Clarendon to Dr. Barwick, that he assisted the King with money in his necessities[BG].

During the time that Charles was in Scotland, Dr. Earle resided in Antwerp, with his friend Dr. Morley[BH], from whence he was called upon to attend the Duke of York (afterwards James II.) at Paris[BI], in order that he might heal some of the breaches which were then existing between certain members of the duke's household[BJ]; and here it is probable he remained till the recal of Charles the Second to the throne of England.

Upon the Restoration, Dr. Earle received the reward of his constancy and loyalty, he[192] was immediately promoted to the deanery of Westminster, a situation long designed for him by the King[BK]. In 1661 he was appointed one of the commissioners for a review of the Liturgy[BL], and on November 30, 1662, was consecrated Bishop of Worcester, from which see he was translated, September 28, 1663, to the dignity of Salisbury[BM].

Little more remains to be added.—Bishop Earle appears to have continued his residence with the royal family after the acquisition of his well-deserved honours; and when the court retired to Oxford, during the plague in 1665, he attended their majesties to the place of his early education, and died at his apartments in University College, on the 17th of November. He was buried on the 25th, near the high altar, in Merton College chapel; and was, according to Wood, "accompanied to his grave, from the public schools, by an herald at arms, and the principal persons of the court and[193] university." His monument, which stands at the north-east corner of the chapel, is still in excellent preservation, and possesses the following inscription:—

"Amice, si quis hic sepultus est roges,
Ille, qui nec meruit, unquá—Nec quod majus est, habuit
Inimicum;
Qui potuit in aulâ vivere, et mundum spernere
Concionator educatus inter principes,
Et ipse facile princeps inter concionatores,
Evangelista indefessus, Episcopus pientissimus;
Ille qui una cum sacratissimo Rege,
Cujus & juvenilium studiorum, et animæ Deo charæ
Curam a beatissimo Patre demandatam gessit,
Nobile ac Religiosum exilium est passus;
Ille qui Hookeri ingentis Politiam Ecclesiasticam,
Ille qui Caroli Martyris ΕΙΚΟ'ΝΑ ΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΗ'Ν,
(Volumen quò post Apocalypsin divinius nullum)
Legavit Orbi sic Latinè redditas,
Ut uterque unius Fidei Defensor,
Patriam adhuc retineat majestatem.
Si nomen ejus necdum tibi suboleat, Lector,
Nomen ejus ut unguenta pretiosa:
Johannes Earle Eboracensis,
Serenissimo Carolo 2^do Regij Oratorij Clericus,

Voluitq. in hoc, ubi olim floruerat, Collegio,
Ex Æde Christi hue in Socium ascitus,
Ver magnum, ut reflorescat, expectare."

[194]

No. II.

CHARACTERS OF BISHOP EARLE.

——"He was a person very notable for his elegance in the Greek and Latin tongues; and being fellow of Merton college in Oxford, and having been proctor of the university, and some very witty and sharp discourses being published in print without his consent, though known to be his, he grew suddenly into a very general esteem with all men; being a man of great piety and devotion; a most eloquent and powerful preacher; and of a conversation so pleasant and delightful, so very innocent, and so very facetious, that no man's company was more desired, and more loved. No man was more negligent in his dress, and habit, and mein; no man more wary and cultivated in his behaviour and discourse; insomuch as he had the greater advantage when he was known, by promising so little before he was known. He was an excellent poet both in Latin, Greek, and English, as appears by many pieces yet abroad; though he suppressed many more himself, especially of English, incomparably good, out of an austerity to those sallies of his youth. He was very dear to the Lord Falkland, with whom he spent as much time as he could make his own; and as that lord would impute the speedy progress he made in the Greek tongue to the information and assistance he had from Mr. Earles, so Mr. Earles would frequently profess that he had got more useful learning by his conversation[195] at Tew (the Lord Falkland's house,) than he had at Oxford. In the first settling of the prince his family, he was made one of his chaplains, and attended on him when he was forced to leave the kingdom. He was amongst the few excellent men who never had, nor ever could have, an enemy, but such a one who was an enemy to all learning and virtue, and therefore would never make himself known."

Lord Clarendon. Account of his own Life, folio, Oxford, 1759, p. 26.

——"This is that Dr. Earle, who from his youth (I had almost said from his childhood,) for his natural and acquired abilities was so very eminent in the university of Oxon; and after was chosen to be one of the first chaplains to his Majesty (when Prince of Wales): who knew not how to desert his master, but with duty and loyalty (suitable to the rest of his many great virtues, both moral and intellectual,) faithfully attended his Majesty both at home and abroad, as chaplain, and clerk of his majesty's closet, and upon his majesty's happy return, was made Dean of Westminster, and now Lord Bishop of Worcester, (for which, December 7, he did homage to his Majesty,) having this high and rare felicity by his excellent and spotless conversation, to have lived so many years in the court of England, so near his Majesty, and yet not given the least offence to any man alive; though both in and out of pulpit he used all Christian freedom against the vanities of this age, being honoured and admired by all who have either known, heard, or read him."

White Kennett (Bishop of Peterborough) Register and Chronicle Ecclesiastical and Civil, folio, London, 1728, page 834.[196]

——"Dr. Earle, now Lord Bishop of Salisbury, of whom I may justly say, (and let it not offend him, because it is such a truth as ought not to be concealed from posterity, or those that now live and yet know him not,) that, since Mr. Hooker died, none have lived whom God hath blessed with more innocent wisdom, more sanctified learning, or a more pious, peaceable, primitive temper: so that this excellent person seems to be only like himself, and our venerable Richard Hooker."

Walton. Life of Mr. Richard Hooker, 8vo. Oxford, 1805, i. 327.

——"This Dr. Earles, lately Lord Bishop of Salisbury.—A person certainly of the sweetest, most obliging nature that lived in our age."

Hugh Cressey. Epistle Apologetical to a Person of Honour (Lord Clarendon), 8vo. 1674, page 46.

——"Dr. Earle, Bishop of Salisbury, was a man that could do good against evil; forgive much, and of a charitable heart."

Pierce. Conformist's Plea for Nonconformity, 4to. 1681, page 174.[197]

No. III.

LIST OF DR. EARLE'S WORKS.

1. Microcosmography, or a Piece of the World discovered, in Essays and Characters. London. 1628. &c. &c. 12mo.

2. Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, translated into Latin. This, says Wood, "is in MS. and not yet printed." In whose possession the MS. was does not appear, nor have I been able to trace it in the catalogue of any public or private collection.

3. Hortus Mertonensis, a Latin Poem, of which Wood gives the first line "Hortus deliciæ domus politæ." It is now supposed to be lost.

4. Lines on the Death of Sir John Burroughs; now printed for the first time. See Appendix, No. IV.

5. Lines on the Death of the Earl of Pembroke; now printed for the first time. See Appendix, No. V.

6. Elegy upon Francis Beaumont; first printed at the end of Beaumont's Poems, London, 1640. 4to. See Appendix, No. VI.

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7. Εικων Βασιλικη, vel Imago Regis Caroli, In illis suis Ærumnis et Solitudine. Hagæ-Comitis. Typis S. B. &c. 1649. 12mo. See Appendix, No. VII.[BN]

[199]

No. IV.

LINES ON SIR JOHN BURROUGHS,

KILLED BY A BULLET AT REEZ[BP].

[From a MS. in the Bodleian.]—(Rawl. Poet. 142.)

J. Earles.

[201]

No. V.

ON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF PEMBROKE[BR].

[From the same MS.]

Mr. Earles, Merton.

[203]

No. VI.

ON MR. BEAUMONT.

WRITTEN THIRTY YEARS SINCE, PRESENTLY AFTER HIS DEATH.

[From "Comedies and Tragedies written by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, Gentlemen" folio. London. 1647.]

John Earle.

[207]

No. VII.

DEDICATION TO THE LATIN TRANSLATION

OF THE

Εικων Βασιλικη.

"Serenissimo et Potentissimo Monarchæ, Carolo Secundo. Dei Gratia Magnæ Britanniæ, Franciæ et Hiberniæ Regi, Fidei Defensori, &c.

Serenissime Rex,

Prodeat jam sub tuis auspiciis illa patris tui gloriosissimi imago, illa quâ magis ad Dei similitudinem, quàm quà Rex aut homo accedit. Prodeat vero eo colore peregrino, quo facta omnibus conspectior fiat publica. Ita enim tu voluisti, ut sic lingua omnium communi orbi traderem, in qua utinam feliciorem tibi operam navare licuisset, ut illam nativam elegantiam, illam vim verborum et lumina, illam admirabilem sermonis structuram exprimerem. Quod cum fieri (fortasse nec a peritissimis) à me certè non possit, præstat interim ut cum aliqua venustatis injuria magnam partem Europæ alloquatur, quam intra paucos suæ gentis clausa apud cæteros omnes conticescat. Sunt enim hic velut quædam Dei magnalia quæ spargi expedit humano generi, et in omnium linguis exaudiri: id pro mea facultate curavi, ut si non sensa tanti authoris ornatè, at perspicuè et fidè traderem, imo nec ab ipsa dictione[208] et phrasi (quantum Latini idiomatis ratio permittit) vel minimum recederem. Sacri enim codicis religiosum esse decet interpretem: et certe proxime ab illo sacro et adorando codice, (qui in has comparationes non cadit,) spera non me audacem futurum, si dixero nullum inter cæteros mortalium, vel autore vel argumento illustriorem, vel in quo viva magis pietas et eximie Christiana spiratur.

Habet vero sanctitas regia nescio quid ex fortunæ suæ majestate sublimius quiddain et augustius, et quæ imperium magis obtinet in mentes hominum, et reverentia majore accipitur: quare et his maxime instrumentis usus est Deus, qui illam partem sacræ paginæ ad solennem Dei cultum pertinentem, psalmos scilicet, et hymnos: cæteraque ejusmodi perpetuis ecclesiæ usibus inservitura, transmitterent hominibus, et auctoritatem quandam conciliarent. Quid quod libentius etiam arripiunt homines sic objectam et traditam pietatem. Quod et libro huic evenit, et erit magis eventurum, quo jam multo diffusior plures sui capaces invenerit.

Magnum erat profecto sic meditari, sic scribere; multo majus sic vivere, sic mori: ut sit hæc pene nimia dictu pietas exemplo illius superata. Scit hæc illa orbis pars miserrima jam et contaminatissima. Utinam hanc maturius intellexissent virtutem, quam jam sero laudant, et admirantur amissam, nec illâ opus fuisset dirâ fornace, quâ tam eximia regis pietas exploraretur, ex qua nos tantum miseri facti sumus, ille omnium felicissimus; cujus illa pars vitæ novissima et ærumnosissima et supremus dies, (in quo hominibus, et angelis spectaculum factus stetit animo excelso et interrito, summum fidei, constantiæ, patientiæ exemplar, superior malis suis, et totâ simul conjestâ inferni malitiâ) omnes omnium triumphos et quicquid est humanæ gloriæ, susuperavit.[209] Nihil egistis O quot estis, hominum! (sed nolo libro sanctissimo quicquam tetrius præfari, nec qaos ille inter preces nominat, maledicere) nihil, inquam, egistis hoc parricidio, nisi quod famam illius et immortalitatem cum æterno vestro probro et scelere conjunxistis. Nemo unquam ab orbe condito tot veris omnium lacrymis, tot sinceris laudibus celebratus est. Nulli unquam principum in secundis agenti illos fictos plausus vel metus dedit, vel adulatio vendidit, quàm hic verissimos expressere fuga, carcer, theatrum et illa omnium funestissima securis, qua obstupe, fecit hostes moriens et cæsus triumphavit.

Tu interim (Rex augustissime) vera et viva patris effigies, (cujus inter summas erat felicitates humanas, et in adversis solatium te genuisse, in quo superstite mori non potest) inflammeris maxime hoc mortis illius exemplo, non tam in vindictæ cupidinem, (in quem alii te extimulent, non ego) quam in heroicæ virtutis, et constantiæ zelum: hanc vero primum adeas quam nulla vis tibi invito eripiet, hæreditariam pietatem; et quo es in tuos omnes affectu maxime philostorgo, hunc librum eodem tecum genitore satum amplectere; dic sapientiæ, soror mea es, et prudentiam affinem voca; hanc tu consule, hanc frequens meditare, hanc imbibe penitus, et in animam tuam transfunde. Vides in te omnium conjectos oculos, in te omnium bonorum spes sitas, ex te omnium vitas pendere, quas jamdiu multi tædio projecissent, nisi ut essent quas tibi impenderent. Magnum onus incumbit, magna urget procella, magna expectatio, major omnium, quam quæ unquam superius, virtutum necessitas: an sit regnum amplius in Britannia futurum, an religio, an homines, an Deus, ex tua virtute, tua fortuna dependet: immo, sola potius ex Deo fortuna; cujus opem quo magis hic necessariam agnoscis, præsentaneam requiris, eo magis magisque, (quod jam facis)[210] omni pietatis officio promerearis: et illa quæ in te largè sparsit bonitatis, prudentiæ, temperantiæ, justitiæ, et omnis regiæ virtutis semina foveas, augeas, et in fructum matures, ut tibi Deus placatus et propitius, quod detraxit patri tuo felicitatis humanæ, tibi adjiciat, et omnes illius ærumnas conduplicatis in te beneficiis compenset, et appelleris ille restaurator, quem te unicé optant omnes et sperant futurum, et ardentissimis precibus expetit.

Majestatis tuæ humillimus devotissimusque subditus et sacellanus,

Jo. Earles.[211]

No. VIII.

INSCRIPTION ON DR. PETER HEYLIN'S[BS] MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

[Written by Dr. Earle, then Dean of Westminster.]

Depositum Mortale
Petri Heylyn, S. Th. D.
Hujus Ecclesiæ Prebendarii et Subdecani,
Viri plane memorabilis,
Egregiis dotibus instructissimi,
Ingenio acri et fœcundo,
Judicio subacto,
Memoria ad prodigium tenaci,
Cui adjunxit incredibilem in studiis patientiam
Quæ cessantibus oculis non cessarunt.[212]
Scripsit varia et plurima,
Quæ jam manibus hominum teruntur;
Et argumentis non vulgaribus
Stylo non vulgari suffecit.
Et Majestatis Regiæ assertor
Nec florentis magis utriusque
Quàm afflictæ,
Idemque perduellium et scismaticæ factionis
Impugnator acerrimus.
Contemptor invidiæ
Et animo infracto
Plura ejusmodi meditanti
Mors indixit silentium:
Ut sileatur
Efficere non potest.
Obiit Anno Ætatis 63, et 8 die Maii, A. D. 1662.
Possuit hoc illi mæstissima conjux.

[213]

No. IX.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN DR. EARLE AND MR. BAXTER.

[See Kennet's Register, folio, Lond. 1723, page 713.]

[215]

DR EARLE, IN REPLY.

[217]

No. X.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION

IN STREGLETHORP CHURCH, NEAR NEWARK-UPON-TRENT, IN LINCOLNSHIRE.

[From Le Neve's Monumenta Anglicana[BT]. 8vo. Lond. 1718. vol. iii. p. 182.]

Richardus Earle [BU], Barn^tus.
Obijt decimo tertio die
Aug^ti Anno Dom. 1697.
Ætatis suæ 24.

[219]

No. XI.

CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF BOOKS OF
CHARACTERS.

No. i.

A Caueat
for commen Cvr
setors vulgarely called
Uagabones, set forth by Thomas Harman.
Esquier. for the vtiliteand proffyt of hys
naturall Countrey. Newly agmented
and Jmprinted Anno Domini.
M.D.LXUjj.

¶ Vewed, examined, and allowed, according vnto the
Queenes Maiestyes Iniunctions

[Roughly-executed wood-cut, of two persons receiving punishment
at the cart's tail from the hands of a beadle.]

Imprinted
at London in Fletestret at the signe of the
Faulcon by Wylliam Gryffith, and are to be
solde at his shoppe in Saynt Dunstones
Churche yarde in the West.

[4to. black letter, containing thirty folios, very incorrectly numbered.][220]

I commence my list of Characters, with a volume, which, although earlier than the period I originally intended to begin from, is of sufficient curiosity and interest to warrant introduction, and, I trust, to obtain pardon from the reader for the additional trouble I am thus preparing for him.

Mr. Warton, in his History of English Poetry, (iv. 74.) has given, with some trifling errors, a transcript of the title, and says he has a faint remembrance of a Collection of Epigrams, by the author, printed about 1599: these I have never been fortunate enough to meet with, nor do they appear in the collections of Ames or Herbert, neither of whom had seen a copy of the present work, although they mention Griffith's licence to print it as dated in 1566[BV].

It is dedicated to Elizabeth, countess of Shrewsbury; Mr. Warton thinks "with singular impropriety," although the motive appears at least to justify the measure, if it does not entitle the author to commendation. He addresses this noble lady as a person of extreme benevolence, and "as also aboundantly powrynge out dayly [her] ardent and bountifull charytie vppon all such as commeth for reliefe."—"I thought it good," he continues, "necessary, and my bounden dutye, to acquaynte your goodnes with the abhominable, wycked, and detestable behauor of all these rowsey, ragged rabblement of rake helles, that vnder the pretence of great misery, dyseases, and other innumerable calamites whiche they fayne through great hipocrisye, do wyn and gayne great almes in all places where they wyly wander."—On this account, therefore, and to preserve the kindness and liberality of the countess from imposition, Harman dedicates his book to that lady.[221]

The notorious characters mentioned, are a "ruffler[BW]; a upright man[BX]; a hoker or angglear[BY]; a roge[BZ]; a wylde roge[CA]; a prygger of prauncers; a pallyarde[CB]; a frater[CC]; a Abraham man[CD]; a fresh water mariner, or whipiacke; a[222] counterfet cranke[CE]; a dommerar[CF]; a dronken tinckar[CG]; a swadder or pedler; a jarke man, and a patrico[CH]; a demaunder for glymmar[CI]; a bawdy basket[CJ]; a antem morte[CK]; a walking morte; a doxe; a dell; a kynchin morte; and a kynchen co."

From such a list, several instances of the tricks, as well as specimens of the language of the thieves of the day, might with ease be extracted, did not the limits of my little volume compel me to refrain from entering at large into this history of rogues; a restriction I the more regret, from its containing several passages illustrating the manners of that period, and which would be found of material use towards explaining many of the allusions met with in our early English dramas and now but imperfectly understood.

"¶ Prygger of Prauncers. (Sign. C. iii. b.)

"A prigger of Prauncers be horse stealers, for to prigge[223] signifieth in their language to steale, and a prauncer is a horse, so beinge put together, the matter is plaine. These go commonly in jerkins of leather or of white frese, & carry little wandes in their hands, and will walke through grounds and pasturs, to search and se horses mete for their purpose. And if thei chaunce to be met and asked by the owners of the grounde what they make there, they fayne straighte that they have loste theyr waye, and desyre to be enstructed the beste way to suche a place. These will also repayre to gentlemens houses, and aske theyr charitye, and will offer theyr seruice. And if you aske them what they can doe, they wil saye that they can kepe two or three geldinges, and waite vppon a gentleman. These haue also theyr women that, walkinge from them in other places, marke where and what they see abrode, and sheweth these priggars therof, when they meete, whych is wythin a weeke or two. And loke, where they steale any thynge, they conuey the same at the leaste three score miles of, or more. There was a gentleman, a verye friende of myne, rydynge from London homewarde into Kente, hauinge within three myles of his house busynesse, alyghted of his horse, and hys man also, in a pretye village, where diuers houses were, and looked about hym where he myghte haue a conuenyent person to walke his horse, because he would speak we a farmer that dwelte on the backe side of the sayde village, little aboue a quarter of a myle from the place where he lighted, and had his man to waight vpon hym, as it was mete for his callynge: espieng a priggar there standing, thinkinge the same to dwel there, charging this prity prigginge person to walke his horse well, and that they might not stande still for takynge of colde, and at his returne (which he saide should not be longe,) he would geue him a peny to drinke, and so[224] wente about his busines. Thys peltynge priggar, proude of his praye, walketh hys horses vp and downe, till he sawe the gentleman out of sighte, and leapes him into the saddell, and awaye be goeth a mayne. This gentleman returning, and findyng not his horses, sente his man to the one ende of the village, & he went himselfe vnto the other ende, and enquired as he went for hys horses that were walked, and began somewhat to suspecte, because neither he nor his man coulde neyther see nor fynde him. Then this gentleman diligently enquired of three or foure towne dwellers there whether any such person, declaring his stature, age, apparel, and so manye linamentes of his body as he coulde call to remembraunce. And vna voce, all sayde that no such man dwelte in their streate, neither in the parish that they knewe of, but some did wel remember that suche a one they sawe there lyrkinge and huggeringe[CL] two houres before the gentleman came thether and a straunger to them. J had thought, quoth this gentleman, he had here dwelled, and marched home mannerly in his botes: farre from the place he dwelt not. J suppose at his comming home he sente such wayes as he suspected or thought mete to search for this prigger, but hetherto he neuer harde any tidinges againe of his palfreys. J had the best gelding stolen out of my pasture that J had amogst others, while this boke was first a printing."

At the end of the several characters, the author gives a list of the names of the most notorious thieves of his day, a collection of the cant phrases used by them, with[225] their significations; and a dialogue between an uprighte man and a roge, which I shall transcribe:—

I have been induced, from the curiosity and rarity of this tract, to extend my account of it farther, perhaps, than many of my readers may think reasonable, and shall, therefore, only add a specimen of Harman's poetry, with which the original terminates.

Another tract of the same description is noticed in Herbert's[228] Ames (p. 885.) as printed so early as in 1565. A copy of the second edition in the Bodleian Library, possesses the following title:—"The Fraternitye of Uacabondes. As wel of ruflyng Vacabondes, as of beggerly, of women as of men, of gyrles as of boyes, with their proper names and qualities. With a description of the crafty company of Cousoners and Shifters. Whereunto also is adioyned the xxv orders of Knaues, otherwyse called a Quartern of Knaues. Confirmed for euer by Cocke Lorell[CM], &c. Imprinted at London by Iohn Awdeley, dwellyng in little Britayne streete without Aldersgate. 1575." This, although much shorter than Harman's, contains nearly the same characters, and is therefore thus briefly dismissed. An account of it, drawn up by the editor of the present volume, may be found in Brydges' British Bibliographer, vol. ii. p. 12.

It may not be amiss to notice in this place, that a considerable part of The Belman of London, bringing to light the most notorious villanies that are now practised in the kingdom, &c. 4to. 1608, is derived from Harman's Caveat. Among the books bequeathed to the Bodleian, by Burton, (4to. G.8. Art. BS.) is a copy of the Belman, with the several passages so borrowed, marked in the hand-writing of the author of the Anatomy of Melancholy, who has also copied the canting dialogue just given, and added several notes of his own on the margin.[229]

ii. Picture of a Puritane, 8vo. 1605. [Dr. Farmer's Sale Catalogue, page 153, No. 3709.]

iii. "A Wife novv the Widdow of Sir Thomas Overbvrye. Being a most exquisite and singular Poem of the Choice of a Wife. Wherevnto are added many witty Characters, and conceited Newes, written by himselfe and other learned Gentlemen his friends.

London Printed for Lawrence Lisle, and are to bee sold at his shop in Paule's Church-yard, at the signe of the Tiger's head. 1614."[CN]

[4to. pp. 64, not numbered.]

Of Sir Thomas Overbury's life, and unhappy end, we have so full an account in the Biographia, and the various historical productions, treating of the period in which he lived, that nothing further will be expected in this place. His Wife and Characters were printed, says Wood, several times during his life, and the edition above noticed, was supposed, by the Oxford biographer, to be the fourth or fifth[CO]. Having never[230] seen a copy of the early editions, I am unable to fix on any character undoubtedly the production of Overbury, and the printer confesses some of them were written by "other learned gentlemen." These were greatly encreased in subsequent impressions, that of 1614 having only twenty-one characters, and that in 1622 containing no less than eighty.

A COURTIER,—(Sign. C. 4. b.)

To all men's thinking is a man, and to most men the finest: all things else are defined by the understanding, but this by the sences; but his surest marke is, that hee is to bee found onely about princes. Hee smells; and putteth away much of his judgement about the scituation of his clothes. Hee knowes no man that is not generally knowne. His wit, like the marigold, openeth with the sunne, and therefore he riseth not before ten of the clocke. Hee puts more confidence in his words than meaning, and more in his pronuntiation than his words. Occasion is his Cupid, and hee hath but one receipt of making loue. Hee followes nothing but inconstancie, admires nothing but beauty, honours nothing but fortune. Loues nothing. The sustenance of his discourse his newes, and his censure like a shot depends vpon the charging. Hee is not, if he be out of court, but, fish-like, breathes destruction,[231] if out of his owne element. Neither his motion, or aspect are regular, but he mooues by the vpper spheres, and is the reflexion of higher substances. If you finde him not heere, you shall in Paules with a pick-tooth in his hat, a cape cloke, and a long stocking.

iv. "Satyrical Essayes, Characters, and others, or accurate and quick Descriptions, fitted to the life of their Subiects. των ηθων δη φυλαττεσθαι μαλλον δει ἡ τους ἑχεισ. Theophras.

Plagosus minime Plagiarius.

John Stephens. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes, and are to be sold by Roger Barnes, at his Shop in St. Dunstane's Church-yard. 1615."

[8vo. pp. 321. title, preface, &c. 14 more.]

In a subsequent impression of this volume, 8vo. in the same year, and with a fresh title page, dated 1631[CP], we find the author to be "John Stephens the younger, of Lincoln's Inn:" no other particulars of him appear to exist at present, excepting that he was the author of a play entitled, Cinthia's Revenge; or, Mænander's Extasie. Lond. for Barnes, 1613, 4to. "which," says Langbaine, "is one of the longest plays I ever read, and withal the most tedious." Ben Jonson addressed[232] some lines[CQ] to the author, whom he calls "his much and worthily esteemed friend," as did F. C. G. Rogers, and Thomas Danet.

Stephens dedicates his book to Thomas Turner, Esq. For the sake of a little variety I give one of his "three satyricall Essayes on Cowardlinesse," which are written in verse.

ESSAY I.

The second edition possesses the following title—"New Essayes and Characters, with a new Satyre in defence of the Common Law, and Lawyers: mixt with reproofe against their Enemy Ignoramus, &c. London, 1631." It seems not improbable that some person had attacked Stephens's first edition, although I am unable to discover the publication alluded to. I suspect him to be the editor of, or one of the contributors to, the later copies of Sir Thomas Overbury's Wife, &c.: since one of Stephens's friends, (a Mr. I. Cocke) in a poetical address prefixed to his New Essayes, says "I am heere enforced to claime 3 characters following the Wife[CR]; viz. the Tinker, the Apparatour, and Almanack-maker, that I may signify the ridiculous and bold dealing of an vnknowne botcher: but I neede make no question what he is; for his hackney similitudes discouer him to be the rayler above-mentioned, whosoeuer that rayler be."[236]

v. Caracters upon Essaies, morall and diuine, written for those good spirits that will take them in good part, and make use of them to good purpose. London: Printed by Edw. Griffin for John Guillim, and are to be sold at his shop in Britaines Burse. 1615. 12mo.

[Censura Literaria, v. 51. Monthly Mirror, xi. 16.]

vi. The Good and the Badde, or Descriptions of the Worthies and Vnworthies of this Age. Where the Best may see their Graces, and the Worst discerne their Basenesse. London, Printed by George Purslowe for Iohn Budge, and are to be sold at the great South-dore of Paules, and at Brittaines Bursse. 1616.

[4to. containing pp. 40, title, dedication "to Sir Gilbert Houghton, Knight," and preface six more. A second edition appeared in 1643, under the title of England's Selected Characters, &c.]

The author of these characters[CS] was Nicholas Breton, who dedicates them to Sir Gilbert Houghton, of Houghton, Knight.[237] Of Breton no particulars are now known, excepting what may be gained from an epitaph in Norton church, Northamptonshire[CT], by which we learn that he was the son of Captain Breton, of Tamworth, in Staffordshire, and served himself in the Low Countries, under the command of the Earl of Leicester. He married Anne, daughter of Sir Edward Legh, or Leigh, of Rushell, Staffordshire, by whom he had five sons and four daughters, and having purchased the manor of Norton, died there June 22, 1624[CU].

Breton appears to have been a poet of considerable reputation among his contemporaries, as he is noticed with commendation by Puttenhem and Meres: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges declares that his poetical powers were distinguished by a simplicity, at once easy and elegant. Specimens of his productions in verse, may be found in Percy's Reliques, Ellis's Specimens, Cooper's Muses' Library, Censura Literaria; and an imperfect list of his publications is given by Ritson, in the Bibliographia Poetica, which is augmented by Mr. Park, in the Cens. Lit. ix. 163[CV].[238]

A WORTHIE PRIUIE COUNCELLER.

A worthy priuie counceller is the pillar of a realme, in whose wisedome and care, vnder God and the king, stands the safety of a kingdome; he is the watch-towre to giue warning of the enemy, and a hand of prouision for the preseruation of the state: hee is an oracle in the king's eare, and a sword in the king's hand, an euen weight in the ballance of justice, and a light of grace in the loue of truth: he is an eye of care in the course of lawe, a heart of loue in the seruice of his soueraigne, a mind of honour in the order of his seruice, and a braine of inuention for the good of the common-wealth; his place is powerful, while his seruice is faithfull, and his honour due in the desert of his employment. In summe, he is as a fixed planet mong the starres of the firmament, which through the clouds in the ayre, shewes the nature of his light.

AN VNWORTHIE COUNCELLER.

An vnworthie counceller is the hurt of a king, and the danger of a state, when the weaknes of judgement may commit an error, or the lacke of care may give way to vnhappinesse:[239] he is a wicked charme in the king's eare, a sword of terror in the aduice of tyranny: his power is perillous in the partiality of will, and his heart full of hollownesse in the protestation of loue: hypocrisie is the couer of his counterfaite religion, and traiterous inuētion is the agent of his ambition: he is the cloud of darknesse, that threatneth foule weather, and if it growe to a storme, it is feareful where it falls: hee is an enemy to God in the hate of grace, and worthie of death in disloyalty to his soueraigne. In summe, he is an vnfit person for the place of a counceller, and an vnworthy subject to looke a king in the face.

AN EFFEMINATE FOOL.

An effeminate foole is the figure of a baby: he loues nothing but gay, to look in a glasse, to keepe among wenches, and to play with trifles; to feed on sweet meats, and to be daunced in laps, to be inbraced in armes, and to be kissed on the cheeke: to talke idlely, to looke demurely, to goe nicely, and to laugh continually: to be his mistresse' servant, and her mayd's master, his father's love, and his mother's none-child: to play on a fiddle, and sing a loue-song, to weare sweet gloues, and look on fine things: to make purposes and write verses, deuise riddles, and tell lies: to follow plaies, and study daunces, to heare newes, and buy trifles: to sigh for loue, and weepe for kindnesse, and mourne for company, and bee sicke for fashion: to ride in a coach, and gallop a hackney, to watch all night, and sleepe out the morning: to lie on a bed, and take tobacco, and to send his page of an idle message to his mistresse; to go vpon gigges, to haue his ruffes set in print, to picke his teeth, and play with a puppet. In summe, hee is[240] a man-childe, and a woman's man, a gaze of folly, and wisedome's griefe[CW].

"THE CHESSE PLAY."

Very aptly deuised by N. B. Gent.

[From "The Phœnix Nest. Built vp with the most rare and refined workes of Noble men, woorthy Knights, gallant Gentlemen, Masters of Arts, and braue Schollers," &c. "Set foorth by R. S. of the Inner Temple, Gentleman." 4to. London, by Iohn Iackson, 1593, page 28.]

THE KING.

THE QUEENE.

THE KNIGHT.

THE BISHOP.

THE ROOKES.

THE PAWNES.

THE NATURE OF THE CHESSE MEN.

LENVOY.

vii. Essayes and Characters of a Prison and Prisoners. Written by G. M. of Grayes'-Inne, Gent. (Woodcut of a keeper standing with the hatch of a prison open, in his left hand a staff, the following lines at the side;

Printed at London for Mathew Walbancke and are to be solde at his shops at the new and old Gate of Grayes-Inne. 1618.

[4to. pp. 48. title, dedication, &c. eight more.]

A second edition appeared in 1638, and, as the title informs us, "with some new additions:" what these were I am not able to state, as my copy, although it appears perfect, contains precisely the same with that of 1618.

Of Geffray Mynshul, as he signs his name to the dedication,[244] I can learn no particulars, but I have reason to suppose him descended from an ancient and highly respectable family, residing at Minshull, in the county of Chester[CY], during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. By what mishap he became an inmate of the King's-bench prison, from when he dates[CZ] his Essayes, it is impossible to conjecture, but as he talks of usury and extortion, as well as of severe creditors; and advises those who are compelled to borrow, to pay as soon as they can, we may suppose that imprudence and extravagance assisted in reducing him to the situation he attempts to describe.

In the dedication to his uncle, "Mr. Matthew Mainwaring[DA], of Namptwich, in Cheshire," he says:—"Since my comming into this prison, what with the strangenesse of the place, and strictnesse of my liberty, I am so transported that I could not follow that study wherein I tooke great delight and cheife pleasure, and to spend my time idley would but adde more discontentments to my troubled brest, and being in this chaos of discontentments, fantasies must arise, which will bring forth the fruits of an idle braine, for e malis minimum. It is farre better to giue some accompt of time, though to little purpose,[245] than none at all. To which end I gathered a handfull of essayes, and few characters of such things as by my owne experience I could say Probatum est: not that thereby I should either please the reader, or shew exquisitenes of inuention, or curious stile; seeing what I write of is but the child of sorrow, bred by discontentments, and nourisht vp with misfortunes, to whosc help melancholly Saturne gaue his iudgement, the night-bird her inuention, and the ominous rauen brought a quill taken from his owne wing, dipt in the inke of misery, as chiefe ayders in this architect of sorrow."

"CHARACTER OF A PRISONER.

A prisoner is an impatient patient, lingring vnder the rough hands of a cruell phisitian: his creditor hauing cast his water knowes his disease, and hath power to cure him, but takes more pleasure to kill him. He is like Tantalus, who hath freedome running by his doore, yet cannot enioy the least benefit thereof. His greatest griefe is that his credit was so good and now no better. His land is drawne within the compasse of a sheepe's skin, and his owne hand the fortification that barres him of entrance: hee is fortunes tossing-bal, an obiect that would make mirth melancholy: to his friends an abiect, and a subiect of nine dayes' wonder in euery barber's shop, and a mouthfull of pitty (that he had no better fortune) to midwiues and talkatiue gossips; and all the content that this transitory life can giue him seemes but to flout him, in respect the restraint of liberty barres the true vse. To his familiars hee is like a plague, whom they dare scarce come nigh for feare of infection, he is a monument ruined by those which raysed him, he spends the day with a hei mihi! ve miserum! and the night with a nullis est medicabilis herbis."[246]

viii. Cvres for the Itch. Characters. Epigrams. Epitaphs. By H. P. Scalpat qui tangitur. London, Printed for Thomas Iones, at the signs of the Blacke Rauen in the Strand. 1626. [8vo. containing pp. 142, not numbered.]

I have little doubt but that the initials H. P. may be attributed with justice to Henry Parrot, author of Laquei ridiculosi: or, Springes for Woodcocks, a collection of epigrams, printed at London in 1613[DB], 8vo. and commended by Mr. Warton, who says, that "many of them are worthy to be revived in modern collections"[DC]. To the same person I would also give The Mastive, or Young Whelpe of the Old Dogge. Epigrams and Satyrs. Lond. (Date cut off in the Bodleian copy,) 4to.—The Mouse Trap, consisting of 100 Epigrams, 4to. 1606.—Epigrams by H. P. 4to. 1608.—and The More the Merrier: containing three-score and odde headlesse Epigrams, shot (like the Fooles bolt) amongst you, light where they will, 4to. 1608[DD].

It appears from the Preface to Cvres for the Itch, that the Epigrams and Epitaphs were written in 1624, during the author's residence in the country, at the "long vacation," and the Characters[DE], which are "not so fully perfected as was[247] meant," were composed "of later times." The following afford as fair a specimen of this part of the volume as can be produced.

"A SCOLD. (B. 5.)

Is a much more heard of, then least desired to bee seene or knowne, she-kinde of serpent; the venom'd sting of whose poysonous tongue, worse then the biting of a scorpion, proues more infectious farre then can be cured. Shee's of all other creatures most vntameablest, and couets more the last word in scoulding, then doth a Combater the last stroke for victorie. She lowdest lifts it standing at her door, bidding, w^th exclamation, flat defiance to any one sayes blacke's her eye. She dares appeare before any iustice, nor is least daunted with the sight of counstable, nor at worst threatnings of a cucking-stoole. There's nothing mads or moues her more to outrage, then but the very naming of a wispe, or if you sing or whistle when she is scoulding. If any in the interim chance to come within her reach, twenty to one she scratcheth him by the face; or doe but offer to hold her hands, sheel presently begin to cry out murder. There's nothing pacifies her but a cup of sacke, which taking in full measure of digestion, shee presently forgets all wrongs that's done her, and thereupon falls streight a weeping. Doe but intreat her with faire words, or flatter her, she then confesseth all her imperfections, and layes the guilt vpon the whore her mayd. Her manner is to talke much in her sleepe, what wrongs she hath indured of that rogue her husband whose hap may be in time to dye a martyr; and so I leaue them."[248]

"A GOOD WIFE,

Is a world of happiness, that brings with it a kingdom in conceit, and makes a perfect adiunct in societie; shee's such a comfort as exceeds content, and proues so precious as canot be paralleld, yea more inestimable then may be valued. Shee's any good man's better second selfe, the very mirror of true constant modesty, the carefull huswife of frugalitie, and dearest obiect of man's heart's felicitie. She commands with mildnesse, rules with discretion, liues in repute, and ordereth all things that are good or necessarie. Shee's her husband's solace, her house's ornament, her children's succor, and her seruant's comfort. Shee's (to be briefe) the eye of warinesse, the tongue of silence, the hand of labour, and the heart of loue. Her voice is musicke, her countenance meeknesse; her minde vertuous, and her soule gratious. Shee's a blessing giuen from God to man, a sweet companion in his affliction, and ioynt co-partner upon all occasions. Shee's (to conclude) earth's chiefest paragon, and will bee, when shee dyes, heauen's dearest creature."

ix. Characters of Vertves and Vices. In two Bookes. By Ios. Hall. Imprinted at London, 1627.

The above is copied from a separate title in the collected works of Bishop Hall, printed in folio, and dedicated to James the First. The book, I believe, originally appeared in 8vo. 1608[DF]. Of this edition I have in vain endeavoured to procure some information, although I cannot fancy it to be of any peculiar rarity.[249]

The volume contains a dedication to Edward Lord Denny, and James Lord Hay, a premonition of the title and use of characters, the proemes, eleven virtuous characters, and fifteen of a different discription. As Bishop Hall's collected works have so lately appeared in a new edition, and as Mr. Pratt[DG] proposes to add a life of the author in a subsequent volume, I shall forbear giving any specimen from the works or biographical notices of this amiable prelate, recommending the perusal of his excellent productions, to all who admire the combination of sound sense with unaffected devotion.

x. Micrologia. Characters, or Essayes, of Persons, Trades, and Places, offered to the City and Country. By R. M. Printed at London by T. C. for Michael Sparke, dwelling at the blue Bible, in Greene Arbor. 1629.

[8vo. containing 56 pages, not numbered.]

The characters in this volume are "A fantasticke taylor; a player; a shooe-maker; a rope-maker; a smith; a tobacconist; a cunning woman; a cobler; a tooth-drawer; a tinker; a fidler; a cunning horse-courser; Bethlem; Ludgate; Bridewell; (and) Newgate."—

"A PLAYER.—(Sign. B. iii.)

Is a volume of various conceits or epitome of time, who by his representation and appearance makes things long past seeme present. He is much like the compters in arithmeticke, and may stand one while for a king, another while a begger,[250] many times as a mute or cypher. Sometimes hee represents that which in his life he scarse practises—to be an honest man. To the point, hee oft personates a rover, and therein comes neerest to himselfe. If his action prefigure passion, he raues, rages, and protests much by his painted heauens, and seemes in the heighth of this fit ready to pull Ioue out of the garret, where pershance hee lies leaning on his elbowes, or is imployed to make squips and crackers to grace the play. His audience are often-times iudicious, but his chiefe admirers are commonly young wanton chamber-maids, who are so taken with his posture and gay clothes, they neuer come to be their owne women after. Hee exasperates men's enormities in publike view, and tels them their faults on the stage, not as being sorry for them, but rather wishes still hee might finde more occasions to worke on. He is the generall corrupter of spirits, yet vntainted, inducing them by gradation to much lasciuious deprauity. He is a perspicuity of vanity in variety, and suggests youth to perpetrate such vices, as otherwise they had haply nere heard of. He is (for the most part) a notable hypocrite, seeming what he is not, and is indeed what hee seemes not. And if hee lose one of his fellow stroules, in the summer he turnes king of the gipsies: if not, some great man's protection is a sufficient warrant for his peregrination, and a meanes to procure him the town-hall, where hee may long exercise his qualities, with clown-claps of great admiration, in a tone sutable to the large eares of his illiterate auditorie. Hee is one seldome takes care for old age, because ill diet and disorder, together with a consumption, or some worse disease, taken vp in his full careere, haue onely chalked out his catastrophe but to a colon: and he scarsely suruiues to his naturall period of dayes."[251]

xi. Whimzies: Or, A new Cast of Characters. Nova, non nota delectant. London, Printed by F. K. and are to be sold by Ambrose Rithirdon, at the signe of the Bull's-head, in Paul's Church-yard. 1631.

[12mo. containing in all, pp. 280.]

The dedication to this volume, which is inscribed to sir Alexander Radcliffe, is signed "Clitus—Alexandrinus;" the author's real name I am unable to discover. It contains twenty-four characters[DH], besides "A cater-character, throwne out of a boxe by an experienced gamester[DI];" and some lines "vpon the birth-day of his sonne Iohn," of which the first-will be sufficient to satisfy all curiosity.

"A CORRANTO-COINER—(p. 15.)

Is a state newes-monger; and his owne genius is his intelligencer. His mint goes weekely, and he coines monie by it. Howsoeuer, the more intelligent merchants doe jeere him, the vulgar doe admire him, holding his novels oracular: and these are usually sent for tokens or intermissiue curtsies betwixt city and countrey. Hee holds most constantly one forme or method of discourse. He retaines some militarie words of art, which hee shootes at randome; no matter where they hitt, they cannot wound any. He ever leaves some passages doubtfull, as if they were some more intimate secrecies of state, clozing his sentence abruptly with—heereafter you shall heare more. Which words, I conceive, he onely useth as baites, to make the appetite of the reader more eager in his next week's pursuit for a more satisfying labour. Some generall-erring relations he pickes up, as crummes or fragments, from a frequented ordinarie: of which shreads he shapes a cote to fit any credulous foole that will weare it. You shall never observe him make any reply in places of publike concourse; hee ingenuously acknowledges himselfe to bee more bounden to the happinesse of a retentive memory, than eyther ability of tongue, or pregnancy of conceite. He carryes his table-booke still about with him, but dares not pull it out publikely. Yet no sooner is the table drawne, than he turnes notarie; by which meanes hee recovers the charge of his ordinarie. Paules is his walke in winter; Moorfields[DJ] in sommer.[253] Where the whole discipline, designes, projects, and exploits of the States, Netherlands, Poland, Switzer, Crimchan and all, are within the compasse of one quadrangle walke most judiciously and punctually discovered. But long he must not walke, lest hee make his newes-presse stand. Thanks to his good invention, he can collect much out of a very little: no matter though more experienced judgements disprove him; hee is anonymos, and that wil secure him. To make his reports more credible or, (which he and his stationer onely aymes at,) more vendible, in the relation of every occurrent he renders you the day of the moneth; and to approve himselfe a scholler, he annexeth these Latine parcells, or parcell-gilt sentences, veteri stylo, novo stylo. Palisados, parapets, counterscarfes, forts, fortresses, rampiers, bulwarks, are his usual dialect. Hee writes as if he would doe some mischiefe, yet the charge of his shot is but paper. Hee will sometimes start in his sleepe, as one affrighted with visions, which I can impute to no other cause but to the terrible skirmishes which he discoursed of in the day-time. He has now tyed himselfe apprentice to the trade of minting, and must weekly performe his taske, or (beside the losse which accrues to himselfe,) he disappoints a number of no small fooles, whose discourse, discipline, and discretion, is drilled from his state-service. These you shall know by their Mondai's morning question, a little before Exchange time; Stationer, have you any newes? Which they no sooner purchase than peruse; and, early by next morning,[254] (lest their countrey friend should be deprived of the benefit of so rich a prize,) they freely vent the substance of it, with some illustrations, if their understanding can furnish them that way. He would make you beleeve that hee were knowne to some forraine intelligence, but I hold him the wisest man that hath the least faith to beleeve him. For his relations he stands resolute, whether they become approved, or evinced for untruths; which if they bee, hee has contracted with his face never to blush for the matter. Hee holds especiall concurrence with two philosophicall sects, though hee bee ignorant of the tenets of either: in the collection of his observations, he is peripateticall, for hee walkes circularly; in the digestion of his relations he is Stoicall, and sits regularly. Hee has an alphabeticall table of all the chiefe commanders, generals, leaders, provinciall townes, rivers, ports, creekes, with other fitting materials to furnish his imaginary building. Whisperings, muttrings, and bare suppositions, are sufficient grounds for the authoritie of his relations. It is strange to see with what greedinesse this ayrie Chameleon, being all lungs and winde, will swallow a receite of newes, as if it were physicall: yea, with what frontlesse insinuation he will scrue himselfe into the acquaintance of some knowing Intelligencers, who, trying the cask by his hollow sound, do familiarly gull him. I am of opinion, were all his voluminous centuries of fabulous relations compiled, they would vye in number with the Iliads of many forerunning ages. You shall many times finde in his Gazettas, pasquils, and corrantos miserable distractions; here a city taken by force long before it bee besieged; there a countrey laid waste before ever the enemie entered. He many times tortures his readers with impertinencies, yet are these the tolerablest passages throughout all his discourse. He is[255] the very landskip of our age. He is all ayre; his eare alwayes open to all reports, which, how incredible soever, must passe for currant, and find vent, purposely to get him currant money, and delude the vulgar. Yet our best comfort is, his chymeras live not long; a weeke is the longest in the citie, and after their arrival, little longer in the countrey; which past, they melt like Butter, or match a pipe, and so Burne[DK]. But indeede, most commonly it is the height of their ambition to aspire to the imployment of stopping mustard-pots, or wrapping up pepper, pouder, staves-aker, &c. which done, they expire. Now for his habit, Wapping and Long-lane will give him his character. Hee honours nothing with a more indeered observance, nor hugges ought with more intimacie than antiquitie, which he expresseth even in his cloathes. I have knowne some love fish best that smelled of the panyer; and the like humour reignes in him, for hee loves that apparele best that has a taste of the broker. Some have held him for a scholler, but trust mee such are in a palpable errour, for hee never yet understood so much Latine as to construe Gallo-Belgicus. For his librarie (his owne continuations excepted,) it consists of very few or no bookes. He holds himselfe highly engaged to his invention if it can purchase him victuals; for authors hee never converseth with them, unlesse they walke in Paules. For his discourse it is[256] ordinarie, yet hee will make you a terrible repetition of desperate commanders, unheard of exployts; intermixing withall his owne personall service. But this is not in all companies, for his experience hath sufficiently informed him in this principle—that as nothing workes more on the simple than things strange and incredibly rare; so nothing discovers his weaknesse more among the knowing and judicious than to insist, by way of discourse, on reports above conceite. Amongst these, therefore, hee is as mute as a fish. But now imagine his lampe (if he be worth one,) to be neerely burnt out; his inventing genius wearied and surfoote with raunging over so many unknowne regions; and himselfe, wasted with the fruitlesse expence of much paper, resigning his place of weekly collections to another, whom, in hope of some little share, hee has to his stationer recommended, while he lives either poorely respected, or dyes miserably suspended. The rest I end with his owne cloze:—Next weeke you shall heare more."

xii. Picturæ loquentes: or Pictures drawne forth in Characters. With a Poeme of a Maid. By Wye Saltonstall. Ne sutor ultra crepidam. London: Printed by T. Coles, &c. 1631. 12mo.

I have copied the above title from an article in the Censura Literaria[DL], communicated by Mr. Park, of whose copious[257] information, and constant accuracy on every subject connected with English literature, the public have many specimens before them.

Saltonstall's[DM] Characters, &c. reached a second edition in 1635. A copy of this rare volume is in the possession of Mr. Douce, who, with his accustomed liberality, permitted my able and excellent friend, Mr. John James Park, to draw up the following account of it for the present volume.

To "The Epistle dedicatory" of this impression, the initials (or such like) of dedicatee's name only are given, for, says the dedicator, "I know no fame can redound unto you by these meane essayes, which were written, Ocium magis foventes, quam studentes gloriæ, as sheapheards play upon their oaten pipes, to recreate themselves, not to get credit."

"To the Reader.—Since the title is the first leafe that cometh under censure, some, perhaps, will dislike the name of pictures, and say, I have no colour for it, which I confesse, for these pictures are not drawne in colours, but in characters, representing to the eye of the minde divers severall professions, which, if they appeare more obscure than I coulde wish, yet I would have you know that it is not the nature of a character, to be as smooth as a bull-rush, but to have some fast and loose knots, which the ingenious reader may easily untie. The first picture is the description of a maide, which young men may read, and from thence learn to know, that vertue is the truest beauty. The next follow in their order, being set together in this little book, that in winter you may reade them ad ignem, by the fire-side, and in summer ad umbram, under[258] some shadie tree, and therewith passe away the tedious howres. So hoping of thy favourable censure, knowing that the least judicious are most ready to judge, I expose them to thy view, with Apelles motto, Ne sutor, ultra crepidam. Lastly, whether you like them, or leave them, yet the author bids you welcome.

"Thine as mine,

W.S."

[259]

"THE TEARME

Is a time when Justice keeps open court for all commers, while her sister Equity strives to mitigate the rigour of her positive sentence. It is called the Tearme, because it does end and terminate busines, or else because it is the Terminus ad quem, that is, the end of the countrey man's journey, who comes up to the Tearme, and with his hobnayle shooes grindes the faces of the poore stones, and so returnes againe. It is the soule of the yeare, and makes it quicke, which before was dead. Inkeepers gape for it as earnestly as shelfish doe for salt water after a low ebbe. It sends forth new bookes into the world, and replenishes Paul's walke with fresh company, where Quid novi? is their first salutation, and the weekely newes their chiefe discourse. The tavernes are painted against the tearme, and many a cause is argu'd there and try'd at that barre, where you are adjudg'd to pay the costs and charges, and so dismist with 'welcome gentlemen.' Now the citty puts her best side outward, and a new play at the Blackfryers is attended on with coaches. It keepes watermen from sinking and helpes them with many a fare voyage to Westminster. Your choyse beauties come up to it onely to see and be seene, and to learne the newest fashion, and for some other recreations. Now monie that has beene long sicke and crasie, begins to stirre and walke abroad, especially if some young prodigalls come to towne, who bring more money than wit. Lastly, the tearme is the joy of the citty, a deare friend to countrymen, and is never more welcome than after a long vacation."[260]

xiii. London and Country corbonadoed and quartered into seuerall Characters. By Donald Lupton, 8vo. 1632.

[See British Bibliographer, i. 464; and Brand's Sale Catalogue, page 66, No. 1754.]

xiv. Character of a Gentleman, appended to Brathwait's English Gentleman, 4to. London, by Felix Kyngston, &c. 1633.

xv. "A strange Metamorphosis of Man, transformed into a Wildernesse. Deciphered in Characters. London, Printed by Thomas Harper, and are to be sold by Lawrence Chapman at his shop in Holborne, 1634."

[12mo. containing pp. 296, not numbered.]

This curious little volume has been noticed by Mr. Haslewood, in the Censura Literaria (vii. 284.) who says, with justice, that a rich vein of humour and amusement runs through it, and that it is the apparent lucubration of a pen able to perform better things. Of the author's name I have been unable to procure the least intelligence.

"THE HORSE (No. 16.)

Is a creature made, as it were, in waxe. When Nature first framed him, she took a secret complacence in her worke. He is even her master-peece in irracionall things, borrowing somewhat of all things to set him forth. For example, his slicke[261] bay coat hee tooke from the chesnut; his necke from the rainbow, which perhaps make him rain so wel. His maine belike he took from Pegasus, making him a hobbie to make this a compleat gennet[DN], which main he weares so curld, much after the women's fashions now adayes; this I am sure of howsoever, it becomes them, [and] it sets forth our gennet well. His legges he borrowed of the hart, with his swiftnesse, which makes him a true courser indeed. The starres in his forehead hee fetcht from heaven, which will not be much mist, there being so many. The little head he hath, broad breast, fat buttocke, and thicke tayle are properly his owne, for he knew not where to get him better. If you tell him of the hornes he wants to make him most compleat, he scornes the motion, and sets them at his heele. He is well shod especially in the upper leather, for as for his soles, they are much at reparation, and often faine to be removed. Nature seems to have spent an apprentiship of yeares to make you such a one, for it is full seven yeares ere hee comes to this perfection, and be fit for the saddle: for then (as we,) it seemes to come to the yeares of discretion, when he will shew a kinde of rationall judgement with him, and if you set an expert rider on his backe, you shall see how sensiblie they will talke together, as master and scholler. When he shall be no sooner mounted and planted in the seat with the reins in one hand, a switch in the other, and speaking with his spurres in[262] the horse's flankes, a language he wel understands, but he shall prance, curvet, and dance the canaries[DO] halfe an houre together in compasse of a bushell, and yet still, as he thinkes, get some ground, shaking the goodly plume on his head with a comely pride. This will our Bucephalus do in the lists: but when hee comes abroad into the fields, hee will play the countrey gentleman as truly, as before the knight in turnament. If the game be up once, and the hounds in chase, you shall see how he will pricke up his eares streight, and tickle at the[263] sport as much as his rider shall, and laugh so loud, that if there be many of them, they will even drowne the rurall harmony of the dogges. When he travels, of all innes he loves best the signe of the silver bell, because likely there he fares best, especially if hee come the first, and get the prize. He carries his eares upright, nor seldome ever lets them fall till they be cropt off, and after that, as in despight, will never weare them more. His taile is so essentiall to him, that if he loose it once hee is no longer an horse, but ever stiled a curtall. To conclude, he is a blade of Vulcan's forging, made for Mars of the best metall, and the post of Fame to carrie her tidings through the world, who, if he knew his own strength, would shrewdly put for the monarchie of our wildernesse."

xvi. The true Character of an untrue Bishop; with a Recipe at the end how to recover a Bishop if hee were lost. London, printed in the yeare 1641[DP].

[4to. pp. 10, besides title.]

xvii. Character of a Projector, by —— Hogg. 4to. 1642.

xviii. Character of an Oxford Incendiary. Printed for Robert White in 1643. 4to.

[Reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, V. 469. edit. 1744.][264]

xix. The Reformado precisely charactered (with a frontispiece.)

[See the Sale Catalogue of George Steevens, Esq. 8vo. Lond. 1800. page 66. No. 1110.]

xx. "A new Anatomie, or Character of a Christian or Round-head. Expressing his Description, Excellencie, Happiness and Innocencie. Wherein may appear how far this blind world is mistaken in their unjust Censures of him. Virtus in Arduis. Proverbs xii. 26; and Jude 10, quoted.) Imprimatur John Downame. London, Printed for Robert Leybourne, and are to be sold at the Star, under Peter's Church in Corn-hill, 1645. 8vo. pp. 13.

[In Ashmole's Museum.]

xxi. In Lord North's Forest of Varieties, London, Printed by Richard Cotes, 1645, are several Characters, as lord Orford informs us, "in the manner of sir Thomas Overbury." Royal and Noble Authors, iii. 82. Of this volume a second edition appeared in 1659, neither of these, however, I have been able to meet with. For some account of the work, with extracts, see Brydges' Memoirs of the Peers of England, 8vo. London. 1802. page 343.[265]

xxii. Characters and Elegies[DQ]. By Francis Wortley, Knight and Baronet. Printed in the yeere 1646." 4to.

The characters are as follow:

1. The character of his royall majestie; 2. The character of the queene's majestie; 3. The hopeful prince; 4. A true character of the illustrious James Duke of York; 5. The character of a noble general; 6. A true English protestant; 7. An antinomian, or anabaptisticall independent; 8. A jesuite; 9. The true character of a northerne lady, as she is wife, mother, and sister; 10. The politique neuter; 11. The citie paragon; 12. A sharking committee-man; 13. Britanicus his pedigree—a fatall prediction of his end; 14. The Phœnix of the Court.

Britanicus his Pedigree—a fatall Prediction of his End.

I dare affirme him a Jew by descent, and of the tribe of Benjamin, lineally descended from the first King of the Jewes, even Saul, or at best he ownes him and his tribe, in most we reade of them. First, of our English tribes, I conceive his father's the lowest, and the meanest of that tribe, stocke, or generation, and the worst, how bad soever they be; melancholy he is, as appeares by his sullen and dogged wit; malicious as Saul to David, as is evident in his writings; he wants but Saul's javelin to cast at him; he as little spares the king's friends with his pen, as Saul did Jonathan his sonne in his reproach; and would be as free of his javelin as his pen, were his power sutable to his will, as Ziba did to Mephibosheth,[266] so does he by the king, he belies him as much to the world, as he his master to David, and in the day of adversitie is as free of his tongue as Shimei was to his soveraigne, and would be as humble as he, and as forward to meet the king as he was David, should the king returne in peace. Abithaes there cannot want to cut off the dog's head, but David is more mercifull then Shimei can be wicked; may he first consult with the witch of Endor, but not worthy of so noble a death as his own sword, die the death of Achitophel for feare of David, then may he be hang'd up as the sonnes of Saul were against the sunne, or rather as the Amelekites who slew Isbosheth, and brought tidings and the tokens of the treason to David; may his hands and his feet be as sacrifices cut off, and so pay for the treasons of his pen and tongue; may all heads that plot treasons, all tongues that speake them, all pens that write them, be so punisht. If Sheba paid his head for his tongue's fault, what deserves Britannicus to pay for his pen and trumpet? Is there never a wise woman in London? we have Abishaes.

Francis Wortley, was the son of Sir Richard Wortley, of Wortley, in Yorkshire, knight. At the age of seventeen he became a commoner of Magdalen College, Oxford; in 1610 he was knighted, and on the 29th of June in the following year, was created a baronet; being then, as Wood says, esteemed an ingenious gentleman. During the civil wars he assisted the royal cause, by raising a troop of horse in the king's service; but at their conclusion he was taken prisoner, and confined in the tower of London, where it seems he composed the volume just noticed. In the Catalogue of Compounders his name appears as "of Carleton, Yorkshire,"[267] and from thence we learn that he paid 500l. for his remaining property. In the Athenæ Oxonienses may be found a list of his works, but I have been unable to trace the date of his decease. Mr. Granger says that "Anne, his daughter, married the second son of the first Earl of Sandwich, who took the name of Wortley," and adds that the late Countess of Bute was descended from him. Biographical History, ii. 310.

xxiii. The Times anatomiz'd, in severall Characters. By T. F[ord, seruant to Mr. Sam. Man[DR].] Difficile est Satyram non scribere. Juv. Sat. 1. London, Printed for W. L. Anno 1647."

[12mo. in the British Museum.]

[268]

"PAMPHLETS

Are the weekly almanacks, shewing what weather is in the state, which, like the doves of Aleppo, carry news to every part of the kingdom. They are the silent traytors that affront majesty, and abuse all authority, under the colour of an Imprimatur. Ubiquitary flies that have of late so blistered the eares of all men, that they cannot endure any solid truth. The ecchoes, whereby what is done in part of the kingdome, is heard all over. They are like the mushromes, sprung up in a night, and dead in a day; and such is the greedinesse of men's natures (in these Athenian dayes) of new, that they will rather feigne then want it."

xxiv. Character of a London Diurnal, 4to. 1647. [This was written by Cleveland, and has been printed in the various editions of his poems.]

xxv. Character of an Agitator. Printed in the Yeare 1647. 4to. pp. 7.

This concludes with the following epitome—"Hee was begotten of Lilburne (with Overton's helpe) in Newgate, nursed up by Cromwell, at first by the army, tutored by Mr. Peters, counselled by Mr. Walwin and Musgarve, patronised by Mr. Martin, (who sometimes sits in counsell with them, though a member) and is like to dye no where but at Tyburne, and that speedily, if hee repent not and reforme his erronious judgement, and his seditious treasonable practises against king, parliament, and martiall discipline itselfe. Finis."[269]

xxvi. In Mr. Brand's Sale Catalogue, No. 1754, we have The Surfeit to A.B.C. 8vo. Lond. 1656, which is there represented to consist of Characters.

xxvii. Characters of a Temporizer and an Antiquary. [In "Naps upon Parnassus," 8vo. 1658. See the Censura Literaria, vol. vi. p. 225; vol. vii. p. 341.]

xxviii. Satyrical Characters, and handsom Descriptions, in Letters, 8vo. 1658. [Catalogue of Thomas Britton the Small Coal Man, 4to, p. 19. No. 102.]

xxix. A Character of England, as it was lately presented in a Letter to a Noble-man of France. With Reflections upon Gallus Castratus. The third Edition. London. Printed for John Crooke, and are to be sold at the Ship in St. Paul's Church-Yard, 1659.

(12mo. pp. 66, title and preface 20 more.)

This very severe satire upon the English nation was replied to in the following publication.

xxx. A Character of France, to which is added Gallus Castratus, or an Answer to a late slanderous Pamphlet, called the Character of England. Si talia nefanda et facinora quis non Democritus? London, Printed for Nath. Brooke, at the Angel in Cornhill, 1659.[270]

xxxi. A perfect Description of the People and Country of Scotland. London. Printed for J. S. 1659.

(12mo. pp. 21. besides the title.)

xxxii. A brief Character of the Low Countries under the States, being Three Weeks Observation of the Vices and Vertues of the Inhabitants. Non seria semper. London, printed for H. S. and are to be sold by H. Lowndes, at the White Lion in St. Paul's Church Yard, neer the little North Door, 1659.

(12mo. pp. 500. title, &c. 6 more.)

Written by Owen Feltham, and appended to the several folio editions of his Resolves.

xxxiii. The Character of Italy: Or, The Italian Anatomiz'd by an English Chirurgion. Difficile est Satyram non scribere. London: Printed for Nath. Brooke, at the Angel in Cornhil. 1660.

[12mo. pp. 93, title and preface 12 more.]

xxxiv. The Character of Spain: Or, An Epitome of Their Virtues and Vices.

London: Printed for Nath. Brooke, at the Angel in Cornhil. 1660.

[12mo. pp. 93, title, &c. 12 more.][271]

xxxv. Essayes and Characters, by L. G. 8vo. 1661.

[See Brand's Sale Catalogue, No. 1754.]

xxxvi. The Assembly-man. Written in the Year 1647. London: Printed for Richard Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop under St. Dunstan's Church, in Fleet-street, 1662-3[DS].

[4to. pp. 22.]

Sir John Birkenhead was the author of this character, which was printed again in 1681, and in 1704 with the following title, "The Assembly-man. Written in the Year 1647; but proves the true character of (Cerberus) the observator, mdcciv." It was also reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, v. 93. For an account of the author, see the Biographia Britannica, edit. Kippis, ii. 324.

xxxvii. Fifty-five[DT] Enigmatical Characters, all very exactly drawn to the Life, from several Persons, Humours, Dispositions. Pleasant and full of Delight. By R. F. Esq.; London: Printed for William Crook, at the sign of the Three Bibles on Fleet-bridge. 1665[DU]."

[8vo. pp. 135, title, index, &c. not numbered, 11 more.][272]

Richard Flecknoe, the author of these characters, is more known from having his name affixed to one of the severest satires ever written by Dryden, than from any excellence of his own as a poet or dramatic writer. Mr. Reed conceives him to have been a Jesuit, and Pope terms him an Irish priest. Langbaine says, that "his acquaintance with the nobility was more than with the muses, and he had a greater propensity to rhyming, than a genius to poetry." As a proof of the former assertion the Duke of Newcastle prefixed two copies of verses to his characters, in which he calls Flecknoe "his worthy friend," and says:

W. Newcastle."

To confirm the latter, requires only the perusal of his verses, which were published in 1653, under the title of Miscellania. Besides these, he wrote five[DV] dramatic pieces, the titles of which may be found in the Biographia Dramatica; a collection of Epigrams, 8vo. 1670; Ten Years Travels in[273] Europe.—A short Discourse of the English Stage, affixed to Love's Dominion, 8vo. 1654; The Idea of his Highness Oliver, late Lord Protector, &c. 8vo. 1659. &c. &c.[DW]

"CHARACTER OF A VALIANT MAN."—(page 61.)

"He is onely a man; your coward and rash being but tame and savage beasts. His courage is still the same, and drink cannot make him more valiant, nor danger lesse. His valour is enough to leaven whole armies, he is an army himself worth an army of other men. His sword is not alwayes out like children's daggers, but he is alwayes last in beginning quarrels, though first in ending them. He holds honour (though delicate as chrystall) yet not so slight and brittle to be broak and crackt with every touch; therefore (though most wary of it,) is not querilous nor punctilious. He is never troubled with passion, as knowing no degree beyond clear courage, and is alwayes valiant, but never furious. He is the more gentle i' th' chamber, more fierce he's in the field, holding boast (the coward's valour,) and cruelty (the beast's,) unworthy a valiant man. He is only coward in this, that he dares not do an unhandsome action. In fine, he can onely be evercome by discourtesie, and has but one deffect—he cannot talk much—to recompence which he dos the more."[274]

xxxviii. The Character of a Coffee-house, with the symptoms of a Town-witt. With Allowance. April 11, 1673. London, Printed for Jonathan Edwin, at the Three Roses in Ludgate-street, 1673.

[Folio, reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, with an answer to it, vol. vi. 429-433.]

xxxix. Essays of Love and Marriage: Being Letters written by two Gentlemen, one dissuading from Love, the other an Answer thereunto. With some Characters, and other Passages of Wit.

London, Printed for H. Brome, at the Gun in St. Paul's Church-yard, 1673.

[12mo. pp. 103, title, &c. 4 more.]

xl. The Character of a Fanatick. By a Person of Quality. London. 1675.

[4to. pp. 8. Reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, vii. 596.][275]

[4to. See Sale Catalogue of George Steevens, Esq. 8vo. London, 1800, page 66, No. 1110.]

xlii. A Whip for a Jockey: or, a Character of an Horse-courser. 1677. London, Printed for R. H. 1677.

[8vo. pp. 29.]

xliii. Four for a Penny, or Poor Robin's Character of an unconscionable Pawnbroker, and Ear-mark of an oppressing Tally-man; with a friendly Description of a Bum-bailey, and his merciless setting cur, or follower. With Allowance. London, Printed for L. C. 1678.

[4to. reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, vol. iv. p. 141.][276]

xliv. Character of an ugly Woman: or, a Hue and Cry after Beauty, in prose, written (by the Duke of Buckingham) in 1678. See Lord Orford's Royal and Noble Authors, by Park, iii. 309.

xlv. Character of a disbanded Courtier. Ingenium Galbæ male habitat. 1681.

[Folio, pp. 2. Reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, i. 356.]

xlvi. Character of a certain ugly old P——. London, Printed in the Year 1684.

[In Oldham's Works, 8vo. London, 1684.]

xlvii. Twelve ingenious Characters: or pleasant Descriptions of the Properties of sundry Persons and Things, viz.

An importunate dunn; a serjeant or bailiff; a paunbroker; a prison; a tavern; a scold; a bad husband; a town-fop; a bawd; a fair and happy milk-maid; the quack's directory; a young enamourist.

Licensed, June the 2d, 1681. R. P. London, printed for S. Norris, and are to be sold by most booksellers, 1686.

[12mo. pp. 48.]

xlviii. Character of a Trimmer. By Sir William Coventry. 1689.

[4to. See Bibliotheca Harleiana, v. 4278.]

This was written long before publication, as is proved by the following.[277]

xlix. Character of a Tory in 1659, in answer to that of a Trimmer (never published) both written in King Charles's reign.

[Reprinted in the Works of George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham. 4to. Lond. 1721.]

l. Characters addressed to Ladies of Age. 8vo. Lond. 1689.

[Brand's Sale Catalogue, p. 66, No. 1747.]

li. The Ceremony-monger, his Character, in six Chapters, &c. &c. By E. Hickeringill, Rector of the Rectory of All-Saints, in Colchester. London, Printed and are to be sold by George Larkin, at the Two Swans, without Bishopsgate. 1689.

[4to. pp. 66.]

lii. Character of a Jacobite. 1690.

[4to. See Bibl. Harl. v. No. 4279.]

The following are without date, but were probably printed before 1700[DX].

liii. Character of an Ill-court-favourite, translated from the French.

[4to. reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, ii. 50.][278]

liv. Character of an honest and worthy Parliament-Man.

[Folio, reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, ii. 336.]

lv. Characterism, or the Modern Age displayed.

[Brand's Sale Catalogue, No. 1757.]

Character of the Presbyterian Pastors and People of Scotland.

[Bibl. Harleiana, v. No. 4280.]

vii. Character of a compleat Physician or Naturalist[DY].

[Bibl. Harleiana, v. No. 4304.][279]

ADDITIONAL NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.

Page 2, line 18, for ports read sports.

Page 4, line 9, "table-book." The custom of writing in table-books, or, as it was then expressed, "in tables," is noticed, and instances given in Reed's Shakspeare, vi, 13. xii, 170. xviii, 88. Dr. Farmer adduces a passage very applicable to the text, from Hall's character of the hypocrite. "He will ever sit where he may be seene best, and in the midst of the sermon pulles out his tables in haste, as if he feared to loose that note," &c. Decker, in his Guls Hornebooke, page 8, speaking to his readers, says, "out with your tables," &c.

Page 6, note 6.—This is also mentioned in Whimzies, 8vo. 1631, p. 57. "Hee must now betake himself to prayer and devotion; remember the founder, benefactors, head, and members of that famous foundation: all which he performes with as much zeale as an actor after the end of a play, when hee prayes for his majestie, the lords of his most honourable privie councell, and all that love the king."

Page 13, note 10.—From a subsequent edition, obligingly pointed out to me by the rev. Mr. arch-deacon Nares, I find that this also is a translation: Regimen Sanitatis Salerni. This booke teachyng all people[280] to gouerne the in health, is translated out of the Latine tongue into Englishe, by Thomas Paynell, whiche booke is amended, augmented, and diligently imprinted. 1575. Colophon. ¶ Jmprynted at London, by Wyllyam How, for Abraham Ueale. The preface says, that it was compiled for the use "of the moste noble and victorious kynge of England, and of Fraunce, by all the doctours in Phisicke of the Uniuersitie of Salerne."

Page 17, line 17, "door-posts."—It was usual for public officers to have painted or gilded posts at their doors, on which proclamations, and other documents of that description, were placed, in order to be read by the populace. See various allusions to this custom, in Reed's Shakspeare, v. 267. Old Plays, iii. 303. The reformation means that they were, in the language of our modern churchwardens, "repaired and beautified," during the reign of our alderman.

Page 45, line 11, for Gollobelgicus read Gallobelgicus.

Page 47, line 15. "post and pair" was a game at cards, of which I can give no description. The author of the Compleat Gamester notices it as "very much played in the West of England." See Dodsley's Old Plays, 1780. vii. 296.

Page 48, line 12—"guarded with more gold lace." The word guarded is continually used by the writers of the sixteenth century for fringed or adorned. See Reed's Shakspeare, vii. 272. Old Plays, iv. 36.[281]

Page 59, line 15, "clout." Shakspeare (Cymbeline, act iv. scene 2.) uses the expression of clouted brogues, which Mr. Steevens explains to be "shoes strengthened with clout or hob-nails."

Page 63, line 9, "dragon that pursued the woman." Evidently an allusion to Revelations, xii. 15.

Page 91, note 8, line 15, for Styla read Hyla in both instances.

Page 92, note 10, line 5, for Leiden read Leyden.

Page 117, line 3, "Their humanity is a leg to the residencer." A leg here signifies a bow. Decker says, "a jewe neuer weares his cap threedbare with putting it off; neuer bends i' th' hammes with casting away a leg, &c." Guls Hornebooke. p. 11.

Page 182, note 1, for spunge read sponge.

Page 208, line 4, for spera read spero.

ib. line 30, for conjesta read congesta.

ib. line 31, for susuperavit read superavit.

Page 231, line 11, for Jude read Inde: for ferucat read ferueat.

Page 245, line 7, for whosc read whose.

Several errors and inaccuracies of less consequence than those here pointed out, will probably be discovered. These were occasioned by the editor's distance from the press, and he requests the gentle reader to pardon and correct them.[282]

Transcriber's note:
Despite a valiant effort to the contrary some additional transcription errors may have slipped through during the preparation of this e-text. We can't blame the distance between the editor and the press. Please forward any corrections to Project Gutenberg errata.

The Inscription, No. x. of the Appendix, should have been entirely omitted. The following extract from Guillim's Heraldry, shews that Bishop Earle could not have been connected with the Streglethorp family, since, if he had, there would have been no occasion for a new grant of armorial bearings.

INDEX.

• Abishaes, 266.
• Abithaes, 266.
• Abraham-man, 221.
• Achitophel, 266.
• Acquaintance, Character of, 144.
• Aeneas, 147.
• Affected man, character of, 169.
• Affections of a pious Soule, by Richard Flecknoe, 273.
• Alderman, character of, 16.
• Aleppo, 268.
• Alexis of Piedmont, 12.
• Alfred, king, 4.
• Allmayne, 262.
• All's well that ends well, by Shakspeare, 262.
• Allot, Robert, li.
• Almanack in the bones, 37.
• Alresford, Hampshire, 211.
• Ames, Mr. lx, 220, 228.
• Amsterdam, 90.
• Anatomy of Melancholly, by Burton, 46, 73, 228.
• Angglear, 221.
• Antem-morte, 222.
• Antiquary, character of, 20.
• Aristophanes, 205.
• Aristotle, 9, 30.
• Arminian, 30.
• Arminius, 114.
• Ashmole's Museum, Oxford, 198, 264.
• Atkinson, Mr. 211.
• Atkyns, Sir Robert, 40.
• Athenæ Oxonienses, by Wood, l, 212, 257, 267.
• Attorney, character of, 93.
• Austin, 113.
• Awdeley, John, 228.

• Baal, priests of, 87.
• Babel, tower of, 21, 104.
• Bagster, Richard, 213.
• Baker, character of a, 111.
• Bales, Peter, 5.
• Bardolph, 105.
• Barnes, John, 74. [284]
• Barnes, Juliana, 50.
• Barrington, Daines, 32.
• Barton, Elizabeth, 109.
• Barwick, Dr. 191. Life of, 191.
• Bawdy-basket, 222.
• Bayle, 91.
• Beaumont, Francis, 197, 203, 204, 205.
• Beau's Duel, by Mrs. Centlivre, 82.
• Bedford, Earl of, 12.
• Bellarmine, Cardinal, 6, 90.
• Belman of London, by Decker, 221.
  • Copy, with Burton's MS. notes, 228.
• Benar, 227.
• Bene, 225.
• Benjamin, 265.
• Benjamin's mess, 109.
• Bessus, 205.
• Bethlem, 249.
• Bible, printed at Geneva, 3.
• Bibliographia Poetica, by Ritson, 237.
• Bibliotheca Harleiana, 276, 277, 278.
• Biographia Britannica, 271.
• Biographia Dramatica, 272.
• Birkenhead, Sir John, 271.
• Bishopstone, 188, 190.
• Blackfriar's, play at, 259.
• Blomefield's History of Norfolk, 217.
• Blount, Edward, xlix, l, li, lx.
• Blount, Ralph, lx.
• Blunt man, character of, 119.
• Bobadil, 105.
• Bodleian Library, Oxford, 73, 198, 199, 228, 231, 262, 273.
• Boke of hawkynge, huntynge, and fysshinge, 50.
• Bold forward man, character of, 108.
• Bong, 227.
• Books, mode of placing them in old libraries, 66.
• Bord, 226.
• Borgia, 79.
• Bouge, 225.
• Boulster, Lecture, 263.
• Bourne, Nicholas, 255.
• Bouse, 225, 226.
• Bousing-ken, 227.
• Bowl-alley, character of, 76.
• Brachigraphy, 5.
• Brand, Mr. 230, 260, 269, 271, 277, 278.
• Bread used in England in the sixteenth century, 47.
• Breeches, 3. [285]
• Breton, captain, 237.
• Breton, Nicholas, 14, 198, 236, 237.
  • Life of, 237
• Breton's Longing, 237.
• Bridewell, 249.
• Britannicus, his pedigree, 265.
• British Bibliographer, by Brydges, 228, 260.
• British Museum, li, 267.
• British Topography, by Gough, an addition to, 253.
• Britton, Thomas, 269.
• Brownist, 87.
• Brydges, Sir Samuel Egerton, 228, 237, 264.
• Bucephalus, 262.
• Bukingham, duke of, 199, 276, 277.
• Bullen, earl of, 163.
• Burford, Oxfordshire, 211.
• Burroughs, Sir John, 197.
  • Lines on, 199, 200.
• Burton, Robert, 46, 73, 228.
• Butler, Samuel, 277.
• Butter, Nathaniel, 255.
• Buttery, 127.
• Byng, 227.

• C. F. 232.
• Caeling cheat, 226.
• Cæsar, 20.
• Cæsars, the, 124.
• Calais sands, 81, 82.
• Cambridge, 161.
• Camden, 72.
• Canaries, a dance, 262.
• Canary, 36, 37.
• Cant phrases, 221, 222, 225, 226, 227.
• Capel, Mr. 229.
• Carrier, character of a, 40.
• Carte, 199.
• Casaubon, 114.
• Cassan, 226.
• Cassel, siege of, 28.
• Catalogue of Compounders for their Estates, 266.
• Cato, 62, 154.
• Caveat for Commen Cursetors, 219.
• Censura Literaria, 229, 236, 237, 256, 260, 269.
• Centlivre, Mrs. 82.
• Centoes, 72.
• Century of Inventions, by the Marquis of Worcester, 33.
• Cerberus, 271.
• Chalmers, Mr. 46.
• Cham, 136.
• Chandler, R. lii.
• Character of an agitator, 268. [286]
• Character of an antiquary, 269.
• Character of an assemblyman, 271.
• Character of an untrue bishop, 263.
• Character of a ceremony-monger, 277.
• Character of a coffee-house, 274.
• Character of a disbanded courtier, 276.
• Character of an ill-court-favourite, 277.
• Character of an honest drunken cur, 275.
• Character of a Dutchman, 275.
• Character of England, 269.
• Character of an exchange-wench, 275.
• Character of a fanatic, 274.
• Character of France, 269.
• Character of a town-gallant, 275.
• Character of a horse-courser, 275.
• Character of an ill husband, 275.
• Character of the hypocrite, 279.
• Character of a Jacobite, 277.
• Character of Italy, 270.
• Character of a London diurnal, 268.
• Character of the Low Countries, 270.
• Character of an Oxford incendiary, 263.
• Character of a certain ugly old P——, 276.
• Character of an honest and worthy parliament man, 278.
• Character of a pawn-broker, 275.
• Character of a complete physician, or naturalist, 278.
• Character of the Presbyterian pastors and people of Scotland, 278.
• Character of a projector, 263.
• Character of a scold, 275.
• Character of Scotland, 270.
• Character of a solicitor, 275.
• Character of Spain, 270.
• Character of a tally-man, 275.
• Character of a pilfering taylor, 275.
• Character of a temporizer, 269.
• Character of a tory, 277.
• Character of a town miss, 275. [287]
• Character of a trimmer, 276.
• Character of an ugly woman, 276.
• Characters: List of books containing characters, 219.
• Characters, by Butler, 277.
• Characters and Elegies, by Wortley, 265.
• Characters upon Essaies, 236.
• Characters addressed to Ladies, 277.
• Characters of virtues and vices, by bishop Hall, 248.
• Characterism, or the modern age displayed, 278.
• Characters, twelve ingenious; or pleasant descriptions, 276.
• Charles I. 190, 191, 193, 218, 277.
• Charles II. 190, 191, 193, 207, 282.
• Charles, Prince, 189.
• Chates, 227.
• Chaucer, 12, 99, 137, 206.
• Cheap, cross in, 163.
• Chess-play, verses on, by Breton, 240.
• Chete, 226.
• Child, character of, 1.
• Christ-church, Oxford, 187, 191.
• Christmas, 150.
• Chuck, 162.
• Church-papist, character of, 27.
• Cinthia's Revenge, by Stephens, 231.
• Citizen, character of a mere gull, 160.
• City Match, by Mayne, 85, 105.
• Clarendon, Lord, 189, 191.
  • His character of Earle, 194.
• Clerke's Tale, by Chaucer, 137.
• Cleveland, 268.
• Cliff, Lord, 37.
• Clitus-Alexandrinus, 251.
• Clout, 59, 281.
• Clye, 227.
• Cocke, J. 235.
• Cocke Lorell, 228.
• Cocke Lorelles Bote, 228.
• Cofe, 225, 227.
• Colchester, 277.
• College butler, character of, 45.
• Comments on books, 124.
• Compleat gamester, 280.
• Complimental man, character of, 147.
• Conceited man, character of, 29.
• Conceited pedlar, by Randolph, 161. [288]
• Constable, character of, 53.
• Constantinople, 28.
• Contemplative man, character of, 82.
• Cook, character of a, 106.
• Cooper, Mrs. 237.
• Corranto-coiner, character of, 252.
• Couched, 225.
• Coventry, Sir William, 276.
• Councellor, character of a worthy, 238.
• Councellor, character of an unworthy, 238.
• Counterfet cranke, 222.
• Country knight, character of, 48.
• Courtier, character of, 230.
• Coward, character of, 173.
• Cowardliness, essay on, in verse, 232.
• Coxeter, 231.
• Cranke, 222.
• Cressey, Hugh, his character of Earle, 196.
• Cramprings, 227.
• Crimchan, 253.
• Critic, character of, 123.
• Cromwell, 268.
• Crooke, Andrew, lii.
• Cuffen, 226.
• Cupid, 230.
• Cure for the itch, by H. P. 246.
• Cut, 225, 227.

• Dallison, Maximilian, 238.
• Dances, old, 262.
• Danet, Thomas, 232.
• Danvers, Lord, 211.
• Darius, 107.
• Darkemans, 225.
• David, 265, 266.
• Davies of Hereford, 229.
• Dear year, 175.
• Deboshments, 181.
• Decker, 33, 34, 98, 221, 279, 281.
• Dele, 222.
• Demaunder for glymmar, 222.
• Demetrius, Charles, 73.
• Denny, Lord Edward, 249.
• Description of unthankfulnesse, by Breton, 237.
• Detractor, character of a, 63.
• Deuseauyel, 227.
• Digby, Sir Kenelm, 15.
• Dinascoso, 224.
• Dining in Pauls, 105.
• Dinners given by the sheriff, 39.
• Dioclesian, 262. [289]
• Discontented man, character of, 18.
• Discourse of the English stage, by Flecknoe, 273.
• Divine, character of a grave, 8.
• Dole, 111.
• Dommerar, 222.
• Door-posts, 17, 280.
• Douce, Mr. 257.
• Doves of Aleppo, 268.
• Doxe, 222.
• Dragon that pursued the woman, 63.
• Dramatic Poets, by Langbaine, xlix.
• Drugger, 14.
• Drunkard, character of, 136.
• Dryden, 272.
• Dudes, 227.
• Dunton, John, 131.
• Duppa, Dr. 189.
• Dutchmen, their love for rotten cheese, 20.

• Earle, Bishop, xlviii, l, lii:
  • Life of, 186, &c.
  • Characters of, 194, 195, 196, 282:
  • list of his works, 197:
  • name of Earle, lvii.
• Earle, Sir Richard, 218.
• Earle, Thomas, 282.
• Earthquake in Germany, 73.
• Ecclesiastical Polity, by Hooker, 190, 193, 197,
  • translated into Latin, 190.
• Edward I. 163.
• Effeminate fool, character of, 239.
• Εικων Βασιλικη 190, 193, 197,
  • dedication to the Latin translation, 207.
• Eleven of the clock, 39.
• Elizabeth, queen, 20, 39, 103, 163.
• Ellinor, queen, 163.
• Ellis, 237.
• Ellis, Henry, li.
• Empty wit, character of an, 134.
• Endor, witch of, 266.
• England, 96, 116.
• England's selected characters, 236.
• English Gentleman, by Brathwait, 260.
• Epigrams, by Flecknoe, 272.
• Epigrams, by H. P. 246.
• Esau, 22.
• Essayes and Characters, by L. G. 271. [290]
• Essays and characters of a prison, by Mynshul, 138, 243.
• Essays of Love and Marriage, 274.
• Essex, Lord, 262,
  • "lord of Essex' measures," a dance, 262.
• Every Man in his Humour, by Ben Jonson, 105, 142.
• Euphormio, 67.
• Excellent vercis worthey Imitation, supposed by Breton, 238.
• Eyes upon noses, 37.
• Elyot, Sir Thomas, 49.

• F. R. 271.
• F. T. 267.
• Fabricius, 46.
• Falcons, 49.
• Falstaff, 19, 105.
• Farley, William, 40.
• Farmer, Dr. 229.
• Feltham, Owen, 270.
• Fiddler, character of a poor, 149.
• Fifty-five enigmatical characters, by R. F. 271.
• Figures, by Breton, 198, 238.
• Figure of foure, by Breton, 198.
• Fines, Catherine, 252.
• Fines, Mary, 252.
• Fines, Sir William, 252.
• Finical, 160.
• Fires, 28.
• Fishing, treatise on, 50.
• Flagge, 225.
• Flatterer, character of a, 155.
• Flecknoe, Richard, 271, 272, 273.
• Fleming, 176.
• Fletcher, John, 203.
• Flitchman, 221.
• Florio, 224.
• Ford, T. 267.
• Formal man, character of, 25.
• Four of the clock, 107.
• Four for a penny; or poor Robin's characters, 275.
• Four prentises of London, by Heywood, 98, 163.
• France, 269.
• Frater, 221.
• Fraternitye of Vacabondes, 221, 228.
• Fresh-water Mariner, 221.
• Freze, white, 223.
• Frieze jerkins, 221.
• Frost, great, 175, 176.
• Funeral Monuments, by Weever, 103.

• G. L. 271. [291]
• Gage, 225.
• Galen, 12, 30.
• Gallant, character of an idle, 51.
• Gallobelgicus, 255.
• Gallus Castratus, 269.
• Gallye slops, 221.
• Gavel-kind, 24.
• Gee and ree, 58.
• Geneva bible, 3.
• Geneva print, 84.
• Gennet, 261.
• Germany, 24, 73.
• Gerry, 227.
• Gigges, 239.
• Gilding of the cross, 163.
• Gildon's Lives of the English Dramatic poets, 231.
• Giles's, St. Church, Oxford, 4.
• Girding, 19.
• Glossographia Anglicana Nova, 141.
• Gloucester cathedral, 40.
• Gloucestershire, History of, by Atkyns, 41.
• Goddard, author of the Mastif-whelp, 15.
• God's judgments, 73.
• Gold hat-bands, 67.
• Gold tassels, worn by noblemen at the University, 67.
• Good and the bad, by Breton, 14, 236.
• Governour, by Sir Thomas Elyot, 49.
• Gough, Mr. 237, 253.
• Gown of an alderman, 18.
• Granger, Mr. 267.
• Great man, character of a meer, 177.
• Greek's collections, 72.
• Grunting chete, 226.
• Gryffith, William, 219.
• Guarded with gold lace, 280.
• Guillim, John, 282.
• Gull in plush, 163.
• Gul's Hornebooke, by Decker, 33, 34, 98, 279, 281.
• Gygger, 226.

• Hall, Bishop, 248, 279.
• Harleian Miscellany, 271, 274, 275, 276, 277.
• Harman, Thomas, 219.
• Harmanes, 226.
• Harrison, William, 24, 39, 47.
• Hart-hall, Oxford, 211.
• Haslewood, Mr. 260.
• Hawking, 49, 142.
• Hawkins, Sir John, 111, 262.
• Hay, James Lord, 249.
• Hederby, 163. [292]
• Hemingford, Huntingdonshire, 211.
• Henry the Fourth, by Shakspeare, 105.
• Henry VI. 15.
• Henry VII. 4.
• Henry VIII. 33.
• Herald, character of an, 115.
• Heraldry, Treatise on, by Guillim, 282.
• Herbert, Mr. 220, 228.
• Heylin, Peter, account of, 211
  • —inscription on his monument, 211.
• Heyne, 148.
• Heywood, 98, 163.
• Hickeringill, E. 277.
• High-spirited man, character of, 158.
• Hill, Mr. lii.
• Hippocrates, 12.
• History of England, by Carte, 199.
• Histrio-mastix, by Prynne, 62.
• Hobby, 261.
• Hogeshed, 225.
• Hogg, 263.
• Hogged poney, 261.
• Hoker, 221.
• Holinshed, Raphael, 5, 15, 24, 39, 47, 109, 175, 176.
• Holt, in Germany, 73.
• Honest man, character of an ordinary, 181.
• Hooker, Richard, 190, 193, 196, 197.
• Hool, Samuel, 131.
• Horæ Subsecivæ, xlix.
• Horse-race terms, 142.
• Hortus Mertonensis, a poem by Earle, 197.
• Hospitall of Incurable Fooles, lx.
• Hostess, character of a handsome, 122.
• Houghton, Sir Gilbert, 236.
• Houghton in the Spring, 211.
• Howell, James, 37.
• Hudibras, 277.
• Huggeringe, 224.
• Hugger-mugger, 224.
• Hungarian, 125.
• Hunting, 142.
• Husband, a poem, 229.
• Hygh-pad, 226.
• Hypocrite, character of a she precise, 84.

• Jacob, 22.
• Jail-bird, 100.
• James I. 20, 62, 92, 103.
• James II. 191. [293]
• Jarke, 227.
• Jarke-man, 222.
• Idea of his highness Oliver, by Flecknoe, 273.
• Jealous man, character of, 183.
• Jennet, 261.
• Jerusalem, 164.
• Jesses, 50.
• Jesuits, 99, 114.
• Ignoramus, 235.
• Illustrious wife, by Giles Oldisworth, 229.
• Imputation, 143, 161.
• Inquisition, 31.
• Insolent man, character of, 142.
• John Dory, 150.
• John's, St. College, Oxford, 211.
• Johnson, Richard, 252.
• Jonathan, 265.
• Jonson, Ben, 105:
  • Lines by, 232.
• Jordans, 36.
• Isbosheth, 266.
• Islip, Oxfordshire, 212.
• Juliana Barnes, or Berners, 50.
• Jump, 156.

• Keckerman, Bartholomew, 46.
• Keep, 118.
• Ken or Kene, 225, 226, 227.
• Kennett, White, 195:
  • his character of Earle, 195.
• Kent, 24, 25.
• Kent, maid of, 109.
• King's bench prison, 244.
• Kippis, Dr. 271.
• Knight, character of a country, 48.
• Kynchin-co, 222.
• Kynchin-morte, 222.

• Lage, 225.
• Lagge, 227.
• Lambarde, 25.
• Lambeth-palace, 111.
• Langbaine, xlix, 231, 272.
• Laquei ridiculosi, by H. P. 246.
• Lascivious man, character of, 165.
• Laud, Bishop, 211.
• Laurence, St. 107.
• Leg to the residencer, 117, 281.
• Legs in hands, 37.
• Legerdemain, 182.
• Legh, Anne, 237.
• Legh, Sir Edward, 237.
• Leicester, Earl of, 237.
• Leigh, see Legh.
• Le Neve, 217. [294]
• Lent, 61.
• Letters, by Howell, 37.
• Life and Errors of John Dunton, by himself, 131.
• Life of Ruddiman, by Chalmers, 45.
• Lilburne, 268.
• Lilly, xlix.
• Lipken, 225.
• Lipped, 225.
• Lipsius, 30.
• London, 41, 175.
• London-bridge, 176.
• London and country carbonadoed, by Lupton, 260.
• London Spy, by Ward, 162.
• Long-lane, 255.
• Long pavian, a dance, 262.
• Love's Dominion, by Flecknoe, 273.
• Low Countries, 23, 237, 270:
  • Brief Character of, by Felltham, 23.
• Lowre, 225, 227.
• Lucian, 138.
• Ludgate, 249.
• Lupton, Donald, 260.
• Lybbege, 225.
• Lycosthenes, 102.
• Lyghtmans, 225.

• M. G. 243.
• M. R. 249.
• Macbeth, by Shakspeare, 162.
• Mac-Flecknoe, 273.
• Machiavel, 31.
• Magdalen College, Oxford, 211, 266.
• Maid, a Poem of, by Salstonstall, 256.
• Maid's Tragedy, by Beaumont and Fletcher, 205.
• Mainwaring, Matthew, 244:
  • family of, ib.
• Make, 225.
• Malaga wine, 37.
• Malone, Mr. 86.
• Man, Samuel, 267.
• Manchet, 47.
• Mars, 263.
• Martial, 135.
• Martin, 268.
• Mary's, St. Church, Oxford, 4, 109.
• Mastif Whelp, 15.
• Mastive or young whelpe of the old dogge, 246.
• Maund, 226.
• Maurice of Nassau, 28.
• Mayne, 85, 105.
• Meddling-man, character of, 151. [295]
• Medicis, Francis de, 91.
• Melpomene, 72.
• Memoirs of the Peers of England, by Brydges, 264.
• Menander, 204.
• Menippus, 138.
• Mephibosheth, 265.
• Meres, 237.
• Merry Devil of Edmonton, a Comedy, 84.
• Merton-College, Oxford, 187, 192, 194, 197.
• Microcosmography, 197.
  • Editions of, li.
• Micrologia, by R. M. 249.
• Minshall-hall, 244.
• Minshew, 32, 94, 181.
• Miraculous Newes from the Cittie of Holt, 73.
• Miscellania, by Flecknoe, 272.
• Modest man, character of, 131.
• Monson, Sir Thomas, 49.
• Monster out of Germany, 73.
• Monthly Mirror, 236.
• Monument of Earle, 193.
• Monumenta Anglicana, by Le Neve, 217.
• Moorfields, 252.
• Mooted, 94.
• More the Merrier, 246.
• Morley, Dr. 191.
• Mort, 225.
• Mother's Blessing, by Breton, 237.
• Mouse-trap, by H. P. 246.
• Munster, 73.
• Murdered bodies supposed to bleed at the approach of the murderer, 15.
• Musgarve, 268.
• Musick, history of, by Sir John Hawkins, 262.
• Myll, 226, 227.
• Mynshul, 84, 138.
• Mynshul, Geffray, 243, 244.

• Nabeker, 225.
• Nabes, 226.
• Namptwich, Cheshire, 244.
• Naps upon Parnassus, 269.
• Nares, Mr. 279.
• Nase, 226.
• Navy of England, 72.
• Nero, 233.
• Netherlands, 253.
• New Anatomie, or character of a Christian or round-head, 264.
• Newcastle, Duke of, 272:
  • lines by, ib.
• New Custome, 221. [296]
• Newes of this present week, 255.
• Newgate, 249, 268.
• Newman, Sir Thomas, 109.
• Nine Muses, a dance, 262.
• Nine Worthies, 164.
• Nireus, 138.
• Noah's flood, 60.
• Nonconformist, 84.
• Norfolk, History of, by Blomefield, 217.
• North, Lord, 264.
• Northern nations, 15.
• Norton, Northamptonshire, 237.
• Nose, 225.
• Nyp, 227.

• Oldham, Mr. 276.
• Oldisworth Giles, 229.
• Old man, character of a good, 153.
• One and thirty, 56.
• Orford, Lord, 264, 276.
• Osborne, Francis, 103.
• Overbury, Sir Thomas, 229, 230, 235, 264.
• Overton, 268.
• Oxford, 4, 96, 187, 201, 211, 238, 266.

• P. H. 246.
• Pad, 226.
• Painted cloth, 74.
• Pallyarde, 221.
• Pamphlets, character of, 268.
• Paracelsus, 30.
• Park, Mr. lii. 237, 256, 276.
• Park, Mr. John James, 257.
• Parrot, Henry, 246.
• Parson, character of a poor, from Chaucer, 10.
• Partial man, character of, 95.
• Passion of a discontented minde, supposed by Breton, 238.
• Passions of the Spirit, supposed by Breton, 238.
• Patrico, 222.
• Pavian, 262.
• Paul V. pope, 91.
• Paul's, St. Church, 103, 231, 252, 255, 259.
• Paul's-cross, 109;
  • penance at, 109.
• Paul's man, 105.
• Paul's walk, character of, 103.
• Paul's walk, xlviii:
  • time of walking there, 103.
• Paynell, Thomas, 13, 280.
• Pecke, 226.
• Pegasus, 261. [297]
• Pembroke, Henry, earl of, 201.
• Pembroke, Philip, earl of, 187, 188.
• Pembroke, William, earl of, 197:
  • lines on, 201.
• Percy, bishop, 237.
• Peters, 268.
• Peter's, St. Church, Oxford, 4.
• Pharoah, 22.
• Philaster, by Beaumont and Fletcher, 205.
• Philip II. of Spain, 32.
• Phœnix Nest, by R. S. 240.
• Physician against his will, by Flecknoe, 272.
• Physician, character of a dull, 11.
• Pick-thank, 168.
• Picturæ Loquentes, by Saltonstall, 256.
• Pierce, character of Earle, 196.
• Pierce Penilesse, 156.
• Pineda, 140.
• Plausible man, character of, 74.
• Plautus, 124, 205.
• Player, characters of, 60, 249.
• Pleasant walkes of Moorefields, 253.
• Plodding student, character of, 101.
• Plutarch, 35.
• Pluto, 138.
• Points, 38.
• Poland, 253.
• Ponsonby, William, lx.
• Poor man, character of, 179.
• Poor Tom, 221.
• Pope, A. 272.
• Popplar of Yarum, 226.
• Poste, by Breton, 237.
• Post and pair, 280.
• Pot-poet, character of, 71.
• Practice of Piety, 87.
• Pratt, Mr. 249.
• Prauncer, 225.
• Prayer for the college, 279.
• Prayer at the end of a play, 279.
• Prayer used before the university, 6.
• Preacher, character of a young raw, 4.
• Pretender to learning, character of, 112.
• Prigger, see Prygger.
• Primero, 32, 33.
• Primivist, 32.
• Print, set in, 239.
• Prison, character of a, 138.
• Prisoner, character of a, 245. [298]
• Privy councellor, character of a worthy, 238.
• Profane man, character of, 171.
• Progresses of Queen Elizabeth, 237.
• Prologue, 97.
• Prolusions, by Capel, 229.
• Prygger of prauncers, character of a, 222.
• Prynne, 62.
• Puritan, 120, 150.
• Puritan, picture of a, 229.
• Puttenham, 237.